


[ROLL]

by vforvesta



Series: [ROLL] [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 26,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vforvesta/pseuds/vforvesta
Summary: An original work where probability decides the fates of our characters, as well as the outcomes of events.God does not play dice... or do they?





	1. The Incident

Head down, back slouched, body slumped over the table. That’s how I begin most Monday mornings, when the blues hit me the hardest and I regret playing Undersight until 2am the night before.  
  
“Eh Alton,” I hear a whisper and a nudge. “Don’t so obvious eh, later ‘cher stare at you not my problem-“  
  
“Don’t care,” I mumble, voice muffled by my crossed arms. “Let me sleep.”  
  
Farah’s rolled her eyes at me so often, I don’t have to look up to know she’s doing it again. “Suit yourself. You’re not gonna get very comfortable anyway. I’m gonna go join the rest.”  
  
“Mmpf,” I acknowledge, slinking even further downwards in my seat.  
  
I used to love Philosophy classes, but now they’re placed at the most inopportune moment I honestly can’t give two shits anymore.  
  
She is right though. There’s no way to get comfortable amidst all this bickering and debating - the only time it’s ever encouraged in class.  
  
“How is free will possible in a world predetermined by space-time? If both space and time could be said to be a like a piece of cloth, a fabric in its entirety, then our ‘linear’ experience through time is really just getting from one point of the cloth to the other, but with the entire journey already mapped out-"  
  
“Through the multiverse, obviously. There are countless possible permutations based on the various choices and divergence points we make, but the outcomes based on each choice is also definite. So in a sense it’s more like jumping from rug pattern to another…"  
  
Intelligent squabbling too.  
  
“Are you kidding me? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard!”  
  
“You’re stupid!”  
  
“No, your mum’s stupid!"  
  
Well, for the most part.  
  
“When we’re done calling each other’s family members stupid, let’s focus on the issue at hand."  
  
“I mean, whatever it is, I find it very fishy that each choice would lead to the exact same desired outcome, as though human agency alone could determine the fate of reality-“  
  
“Not necessarily, because humans interact with nature, with the laws of the universe. And the universe is inherently mathematical. Even when we make a choice, there are certain prior probabilities that exist which might bring about a certain outcome. We might choose to flip a coin, but which side it lies on is all based on probability, unless you are able to fine tune all the factors that come into play to make the choice more biased-“  
  
“So you’re saying that even for each choice we make, there is a possibility of divergence based on the laws of probability?”  
  
“That’s right. Let’s say I choose to roll a dice. The laws of probability would split the multiverse into six different possible futures, each with a different value of dice on it-"  
  
“But that sounds very limited, doesn’t it? In most interactions, I doubt probability applies. God doesn’t play dice-"  
  
“Well, God doesn’t exist!"  
  
Silence descends upon the classroom, and I almost want to congratulate the student who made that divisive remark for making the morning more entertaining than it would normally be.  
  
“A bold statement, Yasmine, but now’s not the time.”  
  
It’s our teacher, Ms. Ameera, and she’s intervening already? I thought she’d be still swiping left on Kindlr or something.  
  
“We’ve briefly covered some parts of our module on religion, but we will get back to it and-“  
  
“That’s stupid,” Yasmine says, and I can imagine the defiant look in her eyes. “Philosophy is interconnected. ALL branches of study are interconnected, and if now’s not the time-“  
  
“Now’s not the time,” Ms. Ameera replies, cutting her off. “For now, perhaps we should just apply some basic assumptions.”  
  
“Like what? That I’m supposed to automatically assume there is a deity somewhere?”  
  
I can almost hear Ms. Ameera frowning. “Yes, maybe, because that’s an assumption we have to make if we’re going to go somewhere-“  
  
“That’s why I’m frustrated! Because there is no need to have this argument!”  
  
“It is awfully pretentious of you to believe your opinion is more valid than others-“  
  
Yasmine cuts her fellow student off, almost snarky now. “You wanna have a go? I can debate you all day long on the existence of a deity and at the end I’m still gonna come out on top-“  
  
“Enough!” Ms. Ameera bangs the table hard, sending a jolt throughout the entire classroom. “Yasmine, you have been nothing but disruptive this entire lesson, so would you please stop it and cool down? Take some time outside of class to get a breather, then you can join us back inside.”  
  
“Just say you want to send me out,” Yasmine challenges, before I hear her footsteps trailing towards the door. “I don’t care about this stupid lesson anyway. No one does. Just look at Alton."  
  
Shit.  
  
I feel all eyes on me, their gazes heavy and lingering and I manage to slide one arm from under my head, giving a wave to everyone. I can hear Farah chiding me in my head and I just really want to sleep and-  
  
“Alton,” Ms. Ameera warns, and I can already hear the hostility in her voice. Not worth it being on her bad side when she’s already frazzled.  
  
“Yeah yeah,” I reply, dragging myself up and excusing myself to go wash up. Not like it’ll help, but maybe I can snooze away the last fifteen minutes on the toilet bowl or something. The sound of the next period’s bell should wake me up. I hope.  
  
I shuffle to the toilet reevaluating all my life choices, not even giving Yasmine a look as I walk past her, down the long corridor leading to the men’s washroom at the end. No point caring about her.  
  
I open the door, and am immediately greeting by an incessant beeping noise. I don’t really care much, because periodic noises at even intervals are either 1. annoying, or 2. can be drowned out into the background. Given my state of consciousness, option number 2 sounds amazing.  
  
Faucet on, water drowning out any distraction, I wash my face, splashing myself half-heartedly and I do manage to shock myself a little, but not for long. My head is still throbbing with exhaustion, and I doubt anything will wake me up right now.  
  
How wrong I am.  
  
Despite staying at the same volume, the beeping sounds louder in the absence of any other noise, and I realise it’s just right beneath the sink. Curiosity draws me to crouch, observe the source of the sound.  
  
A chunk of grey. Bizarre, blinking colours. Numbers..? Flashing indeterminably, or now that I focus, they’re counting down, and-  
  
My feet struggle to catch up with my imagination, and yet imagination has no place in reality, so why is this all so real, and light is faster than sound so I can only see white before my ears are pierced with an explosion that knocks me out indefinitely.  
  
All the while I am thinking - why the flying fish is there a bomb under a sink in a school toilet?  
  
—  
ROLL  
  
[Alton]  
Survival - 25%  
Death - 75%  
Loss of Hearing - 100%  
  
  
  
\---

Welcome to ROLL, an original series set in a distant world where all our characters’ fates are ruled by hard probability, the roll of a dice. Of course, I set the original probabilities, but after that it’s all up to luck.  
  
Except YOU could possibly change their fates. A little bit.  
  
I invite you to participate in ROLL. Each chapter, the probabilities of each character/event will be placed below, after the chapter. You are allowed to BET on the outcome, with rewards should you get it correct, and penalties if you are wrong.  
  
The rewards and penalties being the ability to influence subsequent probabilities.  
  
I’ll make it simple for now. Regardless of the outcome, the next chapter will be from the point of view of a sweet young lady, who will also be placed in a perilous life or death situation. If you bet on Alton’s survival, you will be able to change the probability of this lady’s survival by 3% in whatever direction you choose (3% more survival, or 3% more death). If you go by the safer option and bet on Alton’s death, you will be able to change the probability by 1%.  
  
If you are correct, your changes will be taken into account on top of the base probability I will give the next character. If not, it will have the opposite intended effect.  
  
So, bet in the following format:  
  
Alton dies/lives, Lady’s survival/death +1%/3%  
  
Or, for those of you preferring more coherent sentences:  
  
I bet +3% to the Lady’s survival that Alton will live.  
  
Got all that? Never mind, you’ll catch up eventually. Time to place your bets for the next ROLL.

\---

Bets placed:

Caleb: I bet +3% to the Lady’s survival that Alton will live.  
(I'm confused._. Thank goodness for copy and paste)

 

  
Joel:I don't really get this, but I like survival!! So, I bet +3% to the Lady’s survival that Alton will live.   


 

Jasmin: This makes me so happy.  
I bet +1% to the Lady's survival that Alton will die.

  


Samuel: +1% to the Lady's survival that Alton will die  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first Arc of [ROLL] (Chapters 1-20) was published on Facebook in the form of notes.
> 
> Therefore, with all betting and [ROLL]s already done, they will be placed in the bulk of the story instead of at the end.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	2. The Witness

Tremors.  
  
At first I think it’s an earthquake, but like, there simply aren’t any earthquakes in Mota. It just doesn’t happen.  
  
So it takes me all of three seconds to figure out that something is wrong.  
  
“Mr. Wid-“  
  
“May Hartono-“  
  
I stare straight into my Physics teacher’s eyes, and he knows that I’m relentless, never going to back down. It’s an accumulated trait, an occupational hazard that comes with the job of Student Council President. He grunts, and I grab my essentials before sprinting out the classroom door.  
  
Screams. Someone or some people are screaming from a very specific location, and I lock on as fast as I can. The West Block. I’m at a fast jog, and I can see smoke rising from one of the upper floors. Not good.  
  
Handphone at the ready, I dial the Principal. I have a direct line, and like, if she doesn’t pick up, it better be because she’s already handling the situation. She doesn’t, so I dial the General Office’s front desk as I race up the stairs of the block.  
  
Also no response. With an explosion that loud, they must’ve already started work on something. I consider calling the fire department, before placing faith in the competencies of the adult administration, despite it failing me several times.  
  
Students are already backing up in horror. Half are frenzied and running away and another half are rooted in their positions, trembling and cowering and doing nothing. All valid responses. I reach the fourth floor, and see smouldering black from the end of the corridor. That’s where I dash towards.  
  
Someone’s already there, and I recognise her instantly. Yasmine Ortega. Messy blond hair. Disheveled, tucked-out shirt, skirt way above knee level. On instinct, I focus on all her unflattering details, like, she is so unkempt, but there are more important things. Come on May, you can’t always be so myopic.  
  
“He’s dead,” she states, cold like a corpse, the compassion shocked out of her as she tells me this fact, the charred remains of the burnt student lying before us.  
  
“Please back off,” I tell Yasmine. “The teachers and authorities will deal with the situation from here on out, so please-“  
  
I feel a stinging pain on my cheek, and it doesn’t register that Yasmine just lashed out at me, slapped me or something. I have to tell myself that it’s just the unfamiliar situation she’s been placed in and that she’s just reacting and coping in her own way, and that maybe violence can be permissible for just this instance.  
  
Two paces back, and looking around, I realise that there’s only two of us now. Two of us and the body. No one else. Hmm, strange.  
  
“I saw it,” Yasmine says, sounding like she’s biting something. “I saw everything.”  
  
“What did you see?” I ask, wanting to be of as much help as possible. “Like, was there someone else, or it just happened or- …did you like know the victim? A friend of yours?”  
  
Yasmine is trembling now, hands stiff by her sides, as though bound by terror, or the fact of death catching up with her real quick, the severity of it all-  
  
“I saw too much.”  
  
Her words leave me stunned for a moment. “What do you mean-"  
  
As though answering my question, a sickly green envelopes the lower half of the corpse - or what was left of it - in a pale glow that crept down the back, reforming the body. Then as though changing its mind, it stopped abruptly, reversing the regeneration until it winked out. I blink my eyes and start stepping backwards-  
  
“And so did you.”  
  
Yasmine is a different person, hunched over and adopting a feral-like position, like she’s going to lunge and pounce on me any second now. In her right hand, she is gripping a swiss-army knife with the blade flicked open.  
  
She is armed. She is dangerous.  
  
The odd fact that Yasmine is left-handed pops up into my mind.  
  
I am blinded by the glimmer of the blade as Yasmine reaches forth and attacks me.  
  
  
—  
[ROLL]  
  
{May}  
Survival - 3x% -3% -3% + 1% + 1% = 2x%  
Death - 6x +3% +3% -1% -1% = 7x%  
Scarred - 9x%  
  
You’ll notice that some numbers in the probability roll are obscured. That’s not to say I don’t know the exact probability, but rather that you all are now working under imperfect information. In future bets, there will be an option to reveal certain numbers in subsequent bets, should they be hidden.  
  
For now, you can bet on May’s survival or death (no one really cares about the scars), in exchange for 3% or 1% change in the next roll. This time, I think it’s Yasmine’s life in peril. And depending on whether May is still alive or not, she will be in trouble.  
  
So for now, it’s a change in the survival/death status of both Yasmine and May.   
  
Bet wisely!

\---

Bets placed:

Caleb: I  mean I bet +3% to May's survival that May will survive this round

Jasmin: I bet 3% to Yasmine's survival that May will survive this round. (I HAVE NO IDEA HOW THIS WORKS I THINK IM DOING IT RIGHT)


	3. The Ascension

I have no idea how, but I manage to contort my body in such a way that the blade only deals a shallow wound on my upper abdomen, just below my chest. It slices cleanly, but I jump backwards, and start to make a break for it.  
  
Am I gonna die?  
  
Like, I haven’t even become Speaker of Parliament yet. I’m like, not even old enough to go clubbing. There’s a million things I haven’t done, and it can’t end like this, not yet-  
  
I feel something sinking into my left shoulder blade. Yasmine’s a sprinter, so like, it makes logical sense she should be able to catch up with me but like, it never really occurred to me and I just need to hold out before someone else intervenes.  
  
Where is everyone?  
  
I catch her arm in a grip, only to realise it’s the wrong arm. She slashes at me again, and I can feel my cheek splitting open and taste iron on my lips. The air smells bitter and sour, and unlike all my other perfectly sensible life choices, I raise my other arm to block the next attack.  
  
Her knife cleaves through my flesh like butter.   
  
My nose breaks in quick succession, a punch straight to my face. My glasses flies off, but I’m not worried about it. I have a warranty on that frame, on those lenses. They’ll survive.  
  
But like, I’m almost effectively blind without them, and Yasmine is a blur in front of me, and I turn my back to her again, scrambling, stumbling, trying to reach the end of this infinite corridor and get to safety-  
  
Damn, am I going to have a nice story to tell if I survive this…  
  
—  
  
Everything is heavy.  
  
I try to move, and then realise that I can’t. I’m immobilised… no. Where are my limbs? Where is everything else? I feel like, enough of me exists, but just the bare minimum, which is almost nothing at all?  
  
Question marks???  
  
I am staring at a dull grey - I’m guessing the concrete floor. There’s a wall, I think? Yeah, there’s a wall in front of me, and I’m still in school, still at this blasted corridor, am I paralysed? Maybe. Maybe Yasmine got me in the spine, so I’m just lying here, deadweight, unable to feel, unable to anything.   
  
Everything is so clear, though. Like, I don’t need to squint, and although I can’t feel my glasses on the bridge of my nose, I think that it must be there, until I remember that Yasmine knocked it off when she socked me, which doesn’t make any sense…  
  
And like, I don’t think my field of vision has ever been so wide before.  
  
I can also hear some things, like, random scuttling about because now this is a crime scene too or something, but it’s all muted, like happening far far away.  
  
Then everything’s spinning. I feel so heavy, but at the same time, I’m so light? Like, I must’ve been kicked or something, and my whole body just did a 360 or a 720 or whatever happens when you’re just rolling about, and there’s no pain, but I do feel a nudge, the point of ‘impact’ that sent me spiralling.  
  
Not entirely paralysed after all? There is hope yet-  
  
I’m off the ground. I’m being lifted by someone behind me, and it must be physically impossible, because like, I’m a grown ass young lady and it’s like they’re just picking me off by my legs so shouldn’t my body be hanging? And I want to twist around to see who’s mishandling me-  
  
Only to find that I just managed to look backwards. Entirely. Like an owl head spinning around to look directly behind them, except it was more like changing screens. New channel, or whatever. And I come face to face with a middle-aged man in striking navy uniform. Gardistojn.  
  
I revert my view, and basically proceed the flip the quack out.  
  
There’s me. My body. Presumably dead. I’m lying face flat, in an ungraceful pool of blood that is messy and streaked and I don’t want to think about it any more. There’s Yasmine, lording over it, screaming incoherently. The knife is on the floor, and her hands are dyed in crimson, running through her hair and mixed with tears, and she is crumpled. Even though she did just kill me, I can feel nothing but pity for her.  
  
But she’s like, the least of my worries. The fact that my body’s there and I’m here, I can deal. The fact that as a dead person spirit thing, I’m unable to do a lot of things a spirit should be able to do, worries me.  
  
And then, I find myself ‘sitting’ - if you could use that word liberally - on something vaguely bumpy and oily.  
  
Switching my view, I find that - yep - I’m like way too close for comfort to this guy’s face. In fact, I can only see his eyes now - mechanical and grey, a dash of cobalt in them. I add up all these facts to get a sense of what’s happening.  
  
“Cor,” someone addresses me - or rather the man I’m sitting on. “New specs?"  
  
And that confirms everything.  
  
So like, I'm a pair of glasses now? No, correction. I am my pair of glasses now. Not a question, a statement. My body’s dead, and it seems like my afterlife is basically me residing and possessing this object which has had some significance to me, and somehow a Gardistojn decides to put me on.  
  
This is turning out to be a weird day. Being dead isn’t even in top three of things.  
  
Having a host of some sort seems to accentuate everything else. Like now I can see what he sees, hear what he hears, even feel what he feels. The way his uniform hugs the light armour beneath it, the weight of his weapon sagging down his left side, the callous on his hands rubbing against his gloves. No, even more than that. I can feel him.   
  
I can feel his psyche, almost understand him, like a cloak draped over his consciousness. His thoughts, his beliefs, his emotions. They became a part of me and it felt like a part of me was leaking into him, by virtue of proximity. Because he wore me.  
  
It’s like we’re connected.  
  
Another scream, a shriek like a whistle that’s running out of steam. Yasmine’s howls laces terror through the air, dilated pink streaming down her neck. Static seems to fizz around her and it’s anyone’s guess what she’s gonna do next. The reaction from the Gardistojn is instant. They draw their weapons.  
  
They point it at her.  
  
My host included.  
  
“This is your first warning. Put your hands behind your head and do not resist, or we will shoot.”  
  
The screams die out, and Yasmine’s head cock to one side, like something’s snapped in place within her. Like her whole body goes stiff, and I’m reminded of that scene just before she attacked me.  
  
I realise this can’t end well.  
  
Yasmine crawls towards her knife.  
  
“This is your second warning,” the voice delivering the line is collected, yet stern. “Put your hands behind your head and do not resist, or we will shoot.”  
  
She palms the knife, blade marked in ruby, beads of red pearls - my blood - dotting the stainless steel, and she picks up the weapon, all armed personnel bringing up their guns an inch higher-  
  
No, please don’t.  
  
“This is your final warning. Put the weapon down. Hands behind your head, do not resist. We will shoot.”  
  
Please, don’t.  
  
The Gardistojn who’s wearing me flinches at the force of my insistence, and I’m instantly drawn into him. Now, I’m not seeing as the glasses, but through the glasses, the blurry outline of the frame focusing on the scene before me, and-  
  
I can do this, I realise.   
  
I’ll need answers. I’ll need to stop this. I’ll need Yasmine.  
  
And sorry big guy, but you’re gonna help me.  
—  
[ROLL]  
  
{Yasmine}  
Survival: 1x%  
Death: 8x%  
Persistence after death: xx%  
  
  
{May}  
Interference Success: x0%  
Interference Failure: x0%  
NOTE: May’s successful interference will increase Yasmine’s survival rate by 60%  
  
If you were successful and managed to increase Yasmine’s survival rate through the previous bet, you are allowed to transfer that increase into an increase in May’s Interference Success rate (since if May succeeds, Yasmine will have a much higher chance of survival).  
  
  


\---

Bets placed:

Caleb: I bet +2% for May's success!!!!! Uhm +2% to cor surviving


	4. The Escape

I picked up the pair of glasses, because I noticed it.   
  
Eyesight has been ailing me of late, and when I look through the lenses, everything was clear! In fact, clearer than usual. I don’t remember seeing so well.   
  
So I put it on. It was the logical thing to do.   
  
Then the girl acted. Demented. She threatened, and we had to respond. Nothing personal.   
  
Protocols followed. Weapons pointed. All smooth, always a procedure to deal with everything. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that can surprise us.   
  
Three warnings, and those we disregard in the face of imminent jeopardy. The moment safety is compromised, we suppress.   
  
So how is it possible for me to behave contrary to everything else?    
  
Don't.  
  
Pesky. Annoying. For Gardistojn, there is only do. But body freezes up, hesitating. Bridge of nose itches.   
  
Like a worm burrowing into my earth, something is wriggling in my head.   
  
Discipline. No fidgeting or faltering. Deal with annoyances after. Follow through the mission.   
  
Pierce the neck. Aim where the shoulder connects to the rest of the body, the trajectory of recoil bringing bullet slightly upwards, and-   
  
"Wait!”   
  
Gardistojn does not wait.   
  
Takes me a second to realise that the word isn’t just in my head. I hear it in my own voice, and I am surprised by it. It must have confused everyone as well. Gardistojn do not act out of place.   
  
Hands up, weapon aimed. Straight shot - deadly straight shot, a line through the target’s little finger. Target drops weapon, which works, but Gardistojn do not merely suppress. The concept of minimal force does not apply. Gardistojn overwhelm. Until there is no resistance left.   
  
Did I mean to do it?   
  
Legs carry me forward, large strides towards the target, and I haul her, body going limp like a rag doll. Legs continue on. Corridor reaches end. There is no end for Gardistojn.   
  
We make path even when there is none.   
  
Single, swift motion as I vault the railings. Drop four stories down, shock absorbed by strong legs. Worm in my head wriggles, uncomfortable. Unused to impact.   
  
But I still carry on forward.   
  
Target writhes. Free from grasp. No, I must carry her, I must bring her away, I must-   
  
Bullet hits left arm. Bad shot, bad angle. Others are coming. Another breaches right knee. Mild inconvenience.   
  
Shield target with body mass, target gets away. Two more new wounds. I block the pain away. Numb it all.   
  
"Yasmine!" I shout. "Take me! Take the pair of glasses!"   
  
Not words I would say.   
  
Girl - no, target - no, Yasmine - flees. I chase. Down the parking lot. Public compromised soon. Must escape down by the docks. Must give glasses to Yasmine.   
  
No, Yasmine must take glasses from me.   
  
"I'm with you!" I shout, already catching up. "I've saved your life and if you want me to continue to, take this pair of glasses and wear it!"   
  
Yasmine's pupils dilate. Fear. Unadulterated, primal fear. A cornered animal. Desperate and confused.   
  
She lashes out at my face. Snatches the glasses.   
  
Mind is clear. Fog has lifted. No more worm.   
  
Purpose singular.   
  
Eliminate the target.   
  
Target heads down West, towards the docks. Knowledges comes freely, fast. If not fast enough, she will enter the slums, and-   
  
Bullet grazes skull, carving through left ear. Snipers converge, taking lethal action. I am renegade. I cannot persist.   
  
Better to surrender now, pursue objective later. Else I will no longer be a factor, taken out-   
  
Heart stops. Mind fades. Blank.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Blank.   
\---   
  
  
{Cor} (Gardistojn)   
Survival: 55% +2% = 57%  
Death: 45% - 2% = 43%  
  
  
{Yasmine}   
Success: 75%   
Failure: 25%   
  
The first mini-arc is complete!

 

\---

Bets placed:

NONE


	5. The Hand That Bites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've entered a new mini-arc, so new characters, new setting.

Two shots of two kinds.

 

Mota liquor brings back the nostalgia, although it's a shame that they've been relegated to the underground of the slums. I down two glasses in quick succession, my pistol already cocked and ready to fire. My teeth snags itself on the pit of a cherry, and I suck on it, drawing the sweet-sour tang down my throat.

 

How long has it been since I was here?

 

"Dang, that's some fine whiskey!"

 

My partner slams down her glass, letting off a burp before patting her stomach. Her dreadlocks bounce with each movement she makes, which is kind of distracting, but also an anchor to keep me more or less sober, given that we're drinking on the job.

 

From one drunkard to another, why did we think this was a good idea?

 

"Nox," I start. "Best to not overstretch yourself."

 

"Whaaaas dat?" Nox cups her ear. "Coming from you, that sounded like 'let's get wasted' lol."

 

I groan. "If I have to keep you in check, what's this bloody world come to..."

 

Nox waves me off, signalling to the bartender for another round.

 

"She won't be having any more of that," I interject, preventing them from pouring a glass.

 

"He," Nox shrugs, and I took it in stride immediately.

 

"He," I repeat, pointing at my partner. "Sorry about that."

 

Nox lets another one rip, a belch that echoes throughout the tavern. No one really notices, because the crowd is raucous and rowdy, but only inside their heads. It's rather civilized for now, but that's because they're all keeping to themselves.

 

"Shall we?" I gesture, escorting my partner to the door. He stumbles, jerky, and I really want to chide him but this was my idea in the first place. "We do need to catch up to them."

 

"We do," Nox manages a silly grin, before doing a full 180 and changing his expression. "I think that really cleared me up. Thanks man."

 

He gives me a good thump on the back, before slipping on his gloves. A good pair, those.

 

My hand goes to my pistol without thinking.

 

"Let's get 'em," I announce. "Filthy, traitorous bastards."

 

"Technicallyyyy," Nox slurs, "we're the traitors."

 

"Under an empire like that, who wouldn't have?" I argue. "We've gotta stop this shit show from escalating any further or Mota's gonna be screwed balls deep."

 

Ascending the stairs to the surface, Nox gives an impassionate shrug. "The last time I saw it, it's already pretty fucked."

 

"Wasn't that why," I chuckle, "I made us go for some drinks?"

 

"True," Nox points back. "Gotta be loosened up if we're up against these batshit crazy assholes."

 

I draw, finger wrapped around the trigger guard as the weapon below me transforms. It doesn't matter what it was before, all that matters is what it becomes after. And now, I need something with a good bang.

 

So of course in my inebriated state, my pistol decides to pump itself full of utterly useless electricity. I don’t need a half-assed taser, I need a grenade launcher.

 

“Fuck,” I hiccup, fiddling with the useless thing.

 

Nox sighs, before looking at the weapon. “We can work with this,” he comments, ever optimistic. “Well, but if anything _shocking_ happens, we know who’s at fault."

 

Throwing puns together with the shade darker than night. Truly living up to his name.

 

“I’ll supply the explosive power,” he gestures to his bag. “It can’t be helped. It would’ve been nice to cover our escape, but they’ll have to do."

 

We step out into a sunless sky, nightfall rampant and the city skyline lighting up with its own pulse, a heartbeat that could be felt all the way from the slums. Murky sickness permeated the stale air, and I whipped out the gun before I knew of the danger.

 

Blood like steel on my tongue. The mugger goes down with a shot to his shoulder, and his body flops around like a fish out of water as the electricity takes charge. For good measure, I shoot him once more behind his knee, to test out the pistol’s newfound abilities. I don’t hear the screams, because the sizzling is crackling and Nox is shouting above the noise.

 

“-draw attention to ourselves. That’s only going to be trouble, something flashy like that."

 

“I could use something flashy,” I tip my hat. “It wouldn’t be me, otherwise."

 

Nox grins. “Oh, Allen. You’re full of shit."

 

My eyesight becomes less blurry with every passing second, the thrill of the battle flushing the alcohol out of my system. “Tick tock, time is dead kids."

 

My partner nods, and we head off.

 

Let’s do thi-

 

_“Wait!"_

 

Oh hell naw. What now?

 

A bartender from the tavern hobbles over, the moon reflected in his beady, glasses eye. “Y’all haven’t paid your tab."

 

“Uggghh,” Nox groans, and the tip of my pistol digs the entrance of my pocket. If I fork this out, I’m gonna be pretty much broke for the rest of the week. We did do quite a number back there.

 

There bartender’s shifty gaze sweeps over us, and because I want to get this over with, I ruffle through my other pocket for a spare coin.

 

“We’ll flip. Your call."

 

“I take dibs on heads,” Nox murmurs, and I nod, having the tail end of things.

 

The coin glints against the patch of night sky, waiting for gravity to claim it as its own.

 

* * *

[ROLL]

 

{Alton and Nox}

Heads: 50%

Tails: 50%

 

\---

Bets placed:

 

Caleb: I bet +2% to Allen to the coin being heads


	6. The Invisible Hand

"Done?”

 

“Of course."

 

“Just as predicted."

 

The arrival’s a known certainty. The disembodied voices materialise to my right as two figures begin to take shape. 

 

“We have to move fast, and quick. They might be on to us."

 

I hum, pondering her statement. “Something cropped up?"

 

“It wasn’t perfect. A snag, of sorts. Gardistojn intervened."

 

“I thought we were aiming for that. The keepers would show up and put down the hostile force-"

 

“I mean,” she corrects me. “One of them intervened with the mission. Escaped with my target."

 

“Oh,” I shrug. “I did see that coming, but it was so minute a possibility I discounted it. It can’t be helped."

 

“A heads up next time would be nice."

 

For the heck of it, I flip a coin, already knowing the result. It lands on heads, and I grin at her.

 

“Fuck you, Jai."

 

“What can I say, Sin? I’m a natural."

 

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, glaring, and I can’t turn my head away. Her eyes meet mine. “The next time you do, I’ll make sure you group up with this lug instead."

 

“But I’m useless at the front-lines,” I protest, doing my best to force my eyeballs back into my skull. Her gaze is piercingly uncomfortable. “The both of you are a natural team."

 

She rolls her eyes in disgust. “Croak nearly fucked it up. It got too messy because his reaction time was far too slow and I needed to take over for a while."

 

Croak gave a slow, deep sigh.

 

“You know I can’t see as well when I’m preventing them from seeing us."

 

“Tragedy,” she drips with sarcasm, and with a flick of her wrist my body relaxes. That was way too tense, but where’s the fun without a bit of risk?

 

“So where do we go next?” Croak asks, lumbering.

 

I continue flipping the coin, the probabilities falling into place as the evenly split outcomes fall into being, converging into reality. “We have a few options. But the whole country’s ripe for the taking."

 

“Mota had it coming to them. Being swept under the radar for so long, it was only a matter of time."

 

“The invisible hand moves,” I grin, a lazy trick of the palm turning up another heads. “And we win again."

 

"Glory to the engine that drives all power," she gives a mock salute, and for that split second I find her very attractive.

 

Croak himself swells with pride. "Historic, aren't we? Emissaries, the first venture into a new nation."

 

I wave him off, knowing for a fact that our importance was minuscule. "This country's such a small speck, I doubt it really matters. Nobody's gonna remember."

 

"But every victory is always a victory," she says. "Every victory you lead us to, is a victory for us all, Jai."

 

I want to nibble on those perfect pair of lips.

 

"Sin, darling-"

 

"Hsin Wee," Croak corrects me. "Please-

 

"Thank you, Croak," Hsin Wee says. "I won't ask you again, Jai. I respect you, but I have no use for a team leader who doesn't confer the same to me."

 

"It's a shame, girl, we would've-"

 

I feel my mouth prickling, lips stuck together by sheer force and only muffles escape me, and I can't move my head again. Hsin Wee glares straight at me.

 

"A shame, Jai. I really wanted to do more than sewing your lips shut."

 

Ah, so scary.

 

But it's fine this way. Not like it surprised me.

 

Nothing really does.

 

A sharp pang threads through my temple, like a string that short circuited but I know it's not Hsin Wee. No, I'm all too familiar with this feeling.

 

Imminent danger.

 

I struggle to alert the other two, but Hsin Wee shuts me off. Too bad for her then. Too bad for me. It is watching me, and I know there will be consequences. I wasn't planning far enough ahead, but oh well. I'll deal with the future until it overwhelms me.

 

Tick tock, tick tock. Time is dead people. I can't speak, and the lady won't deal with me and Croak is apathetic, so at the very least I must save myself. I inch away, already plotting my route, my means of survival, anywhere away from this team doomed to fail. 

 

And death becomes a much more distinct, lingering possibility with each passing second, the paths converging and collapsing into a reality I'm helpless to prevent.

 

You win some, you lose some.

 

A jingle.

 

Hsin Wee spins around wildly, fringe spinning in a graceful arc even as her bun contains most of its volume, and the future dictates that this will be the last I see of her, this will be the last image of her that I will know, frantic eyes wide as my upper lip curls into a smirk, my limbs already making a dash for it, avoiding her restraints as I leap from side to side, victory assured.

 

Croak goes down in a violent, brilliant blue, the bullet piercing his bulky frame as he lapses into an uncontrollable frenzy.

 

Everything happens too fast.

 

I see the grenades before their pins are pulled.

 

The blast comes out of nowhere.

 

I've always wanted to go out with a bang.

 

But not today.

 

\---

[ROLL]

 

{Jai}

Death: 1x%

Severe Injury: xx%

Unscathed: 8x%

 

{Croak}

Death: 65%

Severe Injury: 2x%

Unscathed: 1x%

 

{Hsin Wee}

Death: x0%

Severe Injury: 5x%

Unscathed: xx%

 

 

Things are starting again! I guess. 

\---

Bets placed:

 

Caleb: Uhh I bet +3% to Croak to croak being unscathed


	7. The Hand That Feeds

Orange blossoms then wilts, the warm colours unnatural against the cool cityscape, but the dissonance is ephemeral.

 

Cyan flowers bloom from the tip of my gun, and I plant the seeds of tomorrow in my targets, ripping them apart and leaving them stunned.

 

I don't mean to wax poetic, but justice done right always feels so good. The alcohol still hasn't been fully flushed out, anyway. I'm allowed to let rubbish rush out of my tipsy mouth.

 

Nox's the heavy hitter, and we must've taken out at least two of them, though we can never be sure with these ones. They're all a mix of slippery and dangerous, and without the identification of a body there will never be confirmation. Also unfortunately, we've elected the means of their downfall to basically obliterate them, leaving no body behind.

 

When did my vocabulary become so colorful?

 

"Focus, Allen. It's not over yet."

 

I shiver, despite us being far enough away from the action. I have a clear vantage point of ground zero, basically sniping with a pistol. My marksman skills compensate for everything else.

 

The silhouette is clear amidst the ashes and debris. It remains uncompromising, and I know even with a battalion's worth of brute force, we'd only manage a dent at most. 

 

"Here it comes."

 

Without warning, it advances, a steady march that doesn’t know fatigue. It will not be hindered, and even if we ran now, it would chase us down to the ends of the world, without a doubt.

 

Nox wiggles his - her? It should be ‘her’, I vaguely remember them telling me they feel more female during battles - fingers, straining, tugging at something invisible and gargantuan before giving up. “Well shit, that’s not gonna cut it."

 

“You think?” I grimace, firing blind shots that simply shatter upon impact. The monster is unstoppable, and its advance relentless. 

 

“Ah balls,” Nox sighs. “You reckon it recognises us by now? We’d be steamrolled if-"

 

“Nothing but the way ahead,” I shoot back, eye on the goal. We won’t escape, and we won’t be able to stop it through brute force. The only other option that remains-

 

“We’ve never been very good at this,” Nox says. “What with you gunning down most of our problems away."

 

“Hey,” I shrug, handing over my pistol, but keeping my grip on it. “You’ll do fine."

 

Nox stretches her arms, the taser-pistol now shared between him and I. And going blind into the belly of the beast, she extends herself.

 

I don’t really know how she does it. As far as I know, her consciousness stays within her body, and though technically her eyes still gaze straight ahead, there is a level of visual sensory to the whole thing. But both of us are finely attuned to our hands, our fingers, our abilities stemming from touch and what comes of it. So, sprouting like a pair of weeds tangling and infesting anything it wraps around, Nox’s invisible hands enter the interior of the thing.

 

There are many ways to counter a hostile force. The one I dislike the most, is to distract and disrupt.

 

My taser-pistol is there too, or at least its shadow form, or whatever it is Nox does.

 

If the outside cannot be penetrated, well that calls for an inside job, don’t you think?

 

And machines. Well, machines all fall prey to their common enemy. Oh the bane of electricity.

 

One shot, one bullet, and the thing short circuits. I don’t really know what happens to a machine when everything goes haywire, but I imagine it can’t be good. We proceed to get the fuck out of there, because if we don’t, this would have all been for naught-

 

_You two._

 

Oh boy.

 

“We didn’t get em?” Nox’s voice hitches in panic.

 

_The Engine will not stand for this. The Engine remembers this._

It isn’t a voice that infects our heads. It’s far beyond that. The emissary’s not a vessel for nothing.

 

“One more time,” I wring my hands, weapon shared between Nox and I. “For good measure."

 

_You will not stop The Engine. The Engine cannot be stopped. The Engine is the machine that-_

The second shot ricochets inside, and the sizzling black smoke is visible from the outside. 

 

_Futile. All-_

Third time’s the charm, I rationalise, and Nox takes her time, maybe properly aiming now, searching out for the core or something, an area that would be most effective because this time, the lug effectively halts in place.

 

“Alright,” Nox shivers. “We better run-"

 

“You still got the grenades?” I ask.

 

Nox scoffs, rolling her eyes. “You think?"

 

“Well, lob 'em in there. It’s not like we’ll be missing them."

 

“Good point,” Nox grins, before fishing out the egg-shaped pyrotechnic. We begin our sprint when she pulls out the pin, and there’s a muffled little noise that sounds like a hiccup when it goes off. But it won’t be a problem for us anymore. Not now.

 

"That won’t work next time,” Nox notes. "They’ll send a cyborg or at least something with a more robust inside. It was only luck that our parlour trick turned out alright in our favour."

 

“Then the gods are favouring us,” I tip my hat. “A roll with the right face up."

 

The moon howls, and I can feel the rumble of a slumber awakening. The slums stir, and we know that our commotion’s done something. Lawless anarchy reigns in this reclaimed part of the country, something that the outside can work on. I know, because that’s how we got in. That’s how I got out.

 

Chanting begins. The cry of terror and awe. In the city, they remain safe across their little border, a sheltered life of hope and wonder but here? They respond to anything that goes out with a bang.

 

We’ve shaken up the box. And the slums are a collection of hornets’ nests that don’t do well with disturbance. They’ll come, all of them, and especially after the recurrent incidents, we don’t have the luxury of incompetence. If anything, now there are fools running around with abilities too dangerous to be left alone with.

 

They’d swallow everything. The inhabitants are collapsing on us. 

 

“What goes around, comes around,” I give an exasperated groan. I knew we wouldn’t be so lucky.

 

“We’ll just have to survive until the morn.” Nox is nonchalant, the grenade already in her hand as she tosses it like a children’s toy.

 

“Like every other night?"

 

“Like every other night."

 

* * *

[ROLL]

 

{Allen}

Unscathed: x7%

Injured: x3%

 

 

{Nox}

Unscathed: x4%

Injured: x6%

 

 

The second mini-arc is over! The next chapter is standalone, and then we hop straight into another mini-arc. Place your bets and hope you all enjoy!

 

\---

Bets placed:

 

Caleb: I  bet +1% to may that nox will be injured  



	8. The Interrogation

Rain decorates this miserable nadir of the country. My thighs are heavy and my calves are screaming, but I don’t stop, I can’t stop, I-  
  
Fuck it. Fuck this. Fuck it all.  
  
We turn around the final corner, into an alleyway flooded with garbage and with my back to the wall I dredge up every last ounce of strength in me to tear the wretched pair of glasses off my face.  
  
“Get off me!"  
  
I collapse, slumped, not wanting to move, never wanting to do anything ever again. The thunder echoes my roaring heart, yearning for the bellicose rumble that makes the world tremble. I want to make the world tremble, to move it, to expel my suffering and upheaval but I’m so, so tired, I don’t even wanna…  
  
“Yasmine."  
  
Her voice is still inside my head, like a plague infecting every inch of me, and it’s disgusting and I feel dirty and invaded and I want it to go away-  
  
“Fuck you!” I scream, drowned by the crash of lightning that sends heaven down to earth. My body keels forward and my drenched face hits the concrete, the tar and blood mixing into a bad aftertaste and I can’t even tell the difference between tears and rain.  
  
Instinctively I grab my wrists, examining them, still unsure if they are mine, or just having broken the weight of suspension, entirely giving up only to be lifted again, and I just want to slash them off, cut everything-  
  
“Please, Yasmine. It’s hard to talk to you like-“  
  
“Get the fuck away!”  
  
I don’t even have the energy to scramble away from the infernal thing.  
  
“Yasmine, it’s me, May. May Hartono, you know-“  
  
“Of course I bloody fucking know who you are,” I hiss, voice strained and unable to raise it any higher.  
  
Do I feel relief from that smug pair of glasses? It's almost like a sigh, and I want the damn thing to just shut the fuck up-  
  
“Well, then you know it’s perfectly alright to-“  
  
“To what, huh? Perfectly alright for you to fucking take over my body and thoughts and do whatever you want with it?"  
  
“Excuse me?” Disbelief emanates from the arrogant little thing.  
  
I don’t even want to explain it to her. “You just fucking. You tore me apart! You controlled me like I was an empty vessel for you to fill, as though I never existed and-“  
  
“I never did such a thing!” she protests, and I can feel the intensity of her almightier-than-thou righteousness, of her blindness and-  
  
“I was just trying to help-"  
  
“You used me!”  
  
“I saved you!”  
  
“You should’ve just left me to fucking die!”  
  
Another explosion of sound interrupts any retort, and I get the last laugh, the pitter patter of rain ornaments to our silence. We lie there, just the two of us, and the quiet goes on long enough that I actually think it’s just an ordinary pair of glasses, that this ignorant bitch isn’t just staring at me from two feet away, but-  
  
“No, I can’t. I’m-“  
  
“-way too selfish for that,” I complete her sentence.  
  
She doesn’t have a response, and the silence hangs again, like ripe fruit just aching to be plucked. We both have a problem with keeping our mouth shut, and that I’ve done so twice in a row now counts as a small victory.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
At first I think I’m imagining it, that I’m delirious and going to die anyway, but I know that the truth remains the truth irregardless of my beliefs. She said it. She actually said it. I’m taken aback by her own admission of her flaws, but that’s not going to change anything. That’s just not going to do anything in the slightest.  
  
"You want answers? You should’ve already gotten them, fucking pervert.”  
  
“I didn’t peek into your mind. Sure, we shared an empathic connection but I was too focused on getting us away, I never really got the chance to look at anything else."  
  
I cackle against the slimy pavement. “So I’m obviously not gonna let you on my fucking face again."  
  
“We need to work together to get through this, Yasmine.” She still sounds so condescending even as an inanimate fucking object. “It’s a symbiotic relationship, alright? We need each other to get out of this."  
  
“You need me. You’re useless without someone else.”  
  
If she had hands, she would've just waved my comment away. “I can always find someone else, but I need you to tell me what’s going on-“  
  
“I don’t fucking know what’s going on! You think I know anything more than you? I was dragged into this clusterfuck of a mess as well, and-  
  
“For starters, you could tell me what you were doing killing me,” she scoffs. There again playing the victim.  
  
Now that does it. "You still really think that was me? That I would actually risk everything and throw away my future just so I could shiv you to death? Oh my god, how far up your own ass are you?”  
  
May jumps to her defense. “I couldn’t believe it as well, that’s why I’m asking you-“  
  
“Look. I dislike you a lot, and I have done quite a few things bordering the darker side of grey areas, but I wouldn’t fucking kill anyone! Not even you!”  
  
“That… clears things up,” May says, deep in thought. “Does that mean..?”  
  
“Yes, yes, yes, a thousand fucking times yes..! I-“  
  
I can’t go any further. The thought alone paralyses me, and I’m too weak to struggle any more. I just… can’t.  
  
“Okay,” May breathes, her voice airy in my head. “I’m kind of getting the picture now. We’re still nowhere near figuring out who got us into this mess, and I’m so sorry about what happened to you, but at least we’ve cleared things up, whatever… misunderstandings might’ve happened back at school. We’ve both got the short end of things, but… at least we have each other.”  
  
“Just shut up,” I say, except only in my head, and I know that May can ‘hear’ it. Whatever she does to ‘listen’ to things without ears anymore. Maybe if I wasn’t so tired and she wasn’t so annoying I might’ve felt sympathy for her, but it just isn’t in me anymore. It’s quite hilarious that at the end of the day, she gets to live on as a pair of glasses.  
  
The chorus of raindrops don’t let up, a hymnal wave that now no longer chokes, but eases. I let my body droop, nothing to lose, as good as dead, as my consciousness drifts off.  
  
I can’t help but realise that despite the hopeless situation and a spirit broken by despair, I find the will to live on through the night.  
  
It’s a long night, and I can taste bittersweet honey in my dreamless sleep.  
  
—  
  
The sticky sun of high noon makes it seem as though it didn’t rain at all. More so than the heat or the brightness, the stench is what wakes me up, and I crinkle my nose as my body protests in pain. I’m aching, but despite the sensory overload, I feel better than the night before.  
  
I’m shielded from the sun, courtesy of the alleyway’s shade, and the pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses is still sitting there, and the eeriness of the quiet makes me doubt that May’s in there.  
  
After what might amount to a brief staring contest, the ghost herself pipes up.  
  
“Rested well?”  
  
“It helps when you’re not in my head,” I groan, complaining. “How are you even doing this?”  
  
I can feel May shrugging. “I’d very much like to know myself. But my guess is that we’re still in close proximity to each other, so the empathic connection might be weaker, but is still present-“  
  
“What did I say about you being in my head?”  
  
May shuts up instantly. And I’m actually surprised. Like wow. I’ve managed to put a lid on one of the most talkative people from school thrice now. Three times’ the charm, right?  
  
"Are you actually learning?”  
  
“Being stuck in situations like this kind of forces you to… adapt.”  
  
I can feel her gaze, the sight of my grimy face reflected in the lenses. She’s watching for a reaction, some kind of a sign or feedback so that she can improve or something. I’m wondering if I should make it hard for her.  
  
But May took the initiative instead. "Would you let me say a few more words? I… I’ll keep quiet after that, alright?"  
  
I nodded.  
  
"I know what you want to say. That ‘you’re no different than them'. Whoever they are. But I want to prove to you that I am different. I’m on your side, and if we can learn to trust each other-"  
  
“Trust?” I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.  
  
But May was being as earnest as a pair of glasses could be. "I know it’s not easy. I know that I’ll have to earn it, given our rocky start, and that you’re not equipped to deal with… me right now, but… that’s all I have. And if that’s not enough… there’s nothing else I can say or do.”  
  
That’s a surprising amount of maturity she’s gained in such little time. Not that I can speak for myself, considering that everything just seems to be falling apart. Despite being one of the most perceptive people I’ve ever met, she would be awfully short-sighted on certain matters, but now?  
  
May has her shit together better than I do.  
  
But dying is easy. Living is harder.  
  
It’s way too soon to ‘get over it’. I don’t even know how she does it. I can still feel it, the  
strained string coiled tight around my wrists, snapping my rigid body into place, hoisting me like a puppet for play. Volition stripped, will conquered, and I couldn’t do anything. Helpless.  
  
There’s something I can do now.  
  
I pick up the pair of glasses, clipping it to the front of my murky school uniform. Trust? We’ll have to see.  
  
She’s right. We’re all we have now.  


\---

 

[ROLL]

 

 

{May}

To Trust: 50%

Or Not To Trust: 50%

 

That is the question.

 

This chapter turned out a lot longer than I had originally planned it to be but it’s one of my favourite ones to-date! Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

\---

Bets placed:

NONE


	9. The Fourth Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New four chapter mini-arc.

It’s really strange ya know. It feels like a lot of time has passed, but then, things are still so weird. Even though it’s been just two weeks.

Mondays are sian as usual. Mornings are much harder, because Philosophy is such a drag. It just happened, and then it happened again, and again. It’s so hard to believe that I have one classmate dead and another missing.

Encik was there for the third one. He witnessed it and real bad shit went down. Freaking rabak, he says. There was a monster, he says. Nasty thing that And I don’t know whether to be scared for my life or to think: ‘what a time to be alive right now’.

Cher’s teaching something about ethics, but I can’t hear anything. I normally don’t, but it’s for a different reason this time. Philo has been my strong suit, and abang would always chide me because he doesn’t understand anything (apa ta tau, adik perempuan), and I would shoot back with a ‘lepak siol!’ considering how I am consistent in acing the class with little effort but now my thoughts are too muddled and-

I need a breather.

“Cikgu,” I speak in our mother tongue. “Saya boleh pergi?"

Her head motions towards the door, because she knows this top student can handle herself and catch up. Turning around, I tap Zaid’s shoulder. They’ve always been my pillar of strength, and it’s hard you know? Times like these. Plus now there’s no way anyone’s going to the toilet alone. Or anywhere lol.

We stroll down the once familiar but now alien corridor, making a right turn before we enter the charcoal grey zone - they might’ve painted it over but I can never forget that darkness - and just move towards the empty juniors’ classrooms. They have it easy, their classes starting later than ours. Oh how much can happen in that short span of time.

“Everything okay, Farah?” 

“Ya lah,” I wave off, and we both know I’m lying through my teeth. But I feel stronger without admitting the fear, and maybe that lie will carry me through this.

Zaid mumbles something incoherent, and we continue shuffling down corridors, down the fourth towards the third floor, already nearing the Staff Block, until we’re in one of our favourite secluded corners.

It’s a pretty plain spot at the intersection of two blocks, an almost liminal space that seeks to be occupied. But like, you can see out of the school from here, rows of apartments and houses beyond the grey gates that keep us in, beyond the green casing of the plastic fences that have piss poor security. You might get vertigo from the fourth floor, but the third? It’s perfect.

“Ciggie please,” Zaid gestures, fumbling with the lighter as I fish out the pack. After getting in a few puffs, they offer me one, the usual courtesy. As always, I refuse. I don’t carry those around for myself. 

“Can’t wait to get out of here,” I sigh.

“We can do that later,” Zaid exhales. “It’s the blues getting to you."

“Nah, I don’t mean that lah,” I reply. “I meant graduating."

Zaid shrugs. “There’s that too. I’m not looking forward to the end of year papers. Confirm fucking rabak sia."

Only the sound of wafting smoke being blown away by the breeze fills us as we watch the sun peek over the landscape of buildings, and the sunrise has always made me feel very gelat inside, you know? Like, I always found it creepy how every day without fail, the sun would always come up from the east. Just like gravity. Things always fall, and that’s just… unsettling, you know?

Certainty scares me, because I’m even more afraid of what happens when it doesn’t.

Like what happened with Alton.

“You wanna talk about it?” Zaid gets straight to the point, a mind reader as always. There’s not much use denying it at this point.

“I don’t know what to talk about,” I say. “It’s like the world’s gone to pieces. It’s crumbling, everything."

“There’s still me,” they reply. “And even when there isn’t, there’ll be your family, your friends. And even when that’s all gone too, there’ll still be… you."

“And when that’s gone?"

“There’ll have been everything up till that point,” Zaid muses. “No one can take that away from you."

“After what I’ve heard and seen, Zaid? I’m not so sure anymore. I’m not so sure about anything."

Zaid puts an arm around me. “Look, even if someone could change the past with all these crazy new powers popping up, they wouldn’t be able to change the fact that this happened, right? Like no matter how many timelines that we hop through or whatever reality will write and rewrite, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s written all this, even if they were to go and erase the whole thing."

“But I want the future,” I stare on ahead. “Fucking hell lah, I just want to know I have a tomorrow. And one after that. And so on. Is that so hard to ask for? I just-"

“Hold it."

Zaid hushes me with a finger, tapping my shoulder to bring us to a crouch behind the railing. With their cigarette, they point towards an inconspicuous figure amidst the concrete jungle of the first floor.

There’s this man. He’s wearing a tan jacket, but it looks more like a coat, the end draping off and swishing like superman’s cape, or the tail of a suspicious black cat. A western hat shades his eyes and his collar is a tad too high, blocking out any discernible features. He seems perfectly at ease, but no matter how you look at it, he doesn’t belong. Even in broad daylight, it does look as if he’s creeping around.

I motion to Zaid as we keep low, and we take the nearest stairs to get a better look at him. We manage to stalk him as he makes his way down more corridors, towards the Art Block.

“We better tell someone,” I say. “This-"

Zaid rolls their eyes. “Look Farah. It’s just a dude. We’re practically adults, so we can handle this. Baik?"

“Not eighteen yet,” I mumble.

The man turns right, and Zaid tugs me along. “Cepat lah,” they whisper, and I wonder whether Zaid remembers who they’re talking to. We move swiftly on tiptoes until we’re at the corner and have a clear view of him.

“Hey!” Zaid takes the initiative, shouting him down. “You shouldn’t be lurking around here. Got a proper visitor’s pass?"

Even though the man only tilts his head a fraction, I can already see the metallic stigma that scars his face. It's slick chrome, the sheen of cobalt reflecting the barely risen sun over the bump of his nose, and without caring in the slightest, he turns to face us in his entirety.

He looks just like any man, but without a doubt, he - it - isn’t human. At least not entirely. That jacket-coat frames its lean figure, making it - him? - appear bulkier and larger than it really is but that doesn’t alleviate my panic in the slightest. 

The fact that these details are so transfixed in my head should’ve been setting off all the warning alarms.

He has a red eye.

Red means _berhenti._

_ Merah bermakna bahaya. _

There’s a gun peeking out from its holster within the jacket.

The first shot goes straight into Zaid.

You know, they tease us that we run too fast because we’re all too lazy and escaping from work, or that we steal too much and need to make quick getaways. They hail Ortega as a prodigy because she’s a ‘fluke’, and that I’m expected to be good because the colour of my skin dictates that speed is in my blood. I don’t mind the position of  _nombor dua_ , but now?

I pray that I can fucking sprint even until my body gives out.

And I do.

I won’t go down the same way Alton did. I won’t. Not again.

Six long years. I know this shithole of a school as well as the back alleys that lead to the slums. Right turn to dash up the stairs. Grab the railing to vault over it. Any slip up will have me killed, but I can’t leave Zaid behind like that. I glance downwards, and almost trip up at the sight of Zaid’s body. Or the lack thereof-ish. They’re frozen, just standing there, in whatever position they were when they were hit.

It catches up with me almost instantly. Back to the first floor, and I vault before breaking into a roll as I hit the ground, praying that I did it correctly like those action films or parkour channels. 

Another bullet lodges itself inches from my head. Fuck.

The shock rings through my shins and up my knees as I scramble back into cover to prevent being picked off by it. The cyborg man lands without a hitch, and adrenaline makes me get back on my feet.

Not yet. Not now.

I charge him, straight into its torso.

If I ever ran into a wall, I suppose it’d be the same sensation. The metal stretches beyond its face, and I can feel my ribs bruising as I manage to take it a tad off balance. Then we wrestle for the gun.

It’s a pistol, and I know if the bullets hit me, it’s game over. I could only hope that I’d waste its shots. My fingers struggle for control over the trigger, but I’m flipped over. 

An endless myriad of possibilities flash before my eyes.

Is this it?

Not yet.

I fixate on a future where I’m not dead, not incapacitated, grab for it as I roll right, the bullet missing me. Fluid movements from the machine-like thing make me realise that it’s going for a reload. A golden opportunity.

My calves burn as I take off, heading not back to the obscurity of empty classrooms, but deeper into the art block.

Misery enjoys company, does it not?

At least, it won’t be so fucking rabak when we’re in numbers. We can deal with this better.

Unless it has a bomb, then well fuck.

Two more bullets whizz past me. I make sure my movements are erratic, keeping unnecessary movement to a minimum to make myself less of a target, less of a sitting duck. End of the line, and I know its gonna catch up soon. 

Left or right?

A flash of divergence tells me that if I go right, I’m a goner.

Instinct, then. Left it is.

I pull myself behind a wall, taking cover from another bullet. There’s a door to my right and this is it. No more running, it’s now or never.

I feel something go crunch as I’m slammed into the door, and it almost gives way from the impact. The air itself seems to choke me as I push back against the inhuman monster, keenly aware of the position of the pistol, where the barrel is aimed at, the way it attacks me. Bit by bit, flash by flash, I attempt to gain the upper hand. 

Then I get punched straight in the face.

It’s not clean, but unadulterated violence never is, and I can feel my skull rattling and I stumbled into the open room behind me.

I face down the end of the barrel.

_Rabak siol._

* * *

[ROLL]

{Farah}

Survival: xx%

Death: xx%

\---

Bets placed:

Caleb: I bet +3% to farah that she survives


	10. The Musicians (Part 1)

Dani was a champion of the school of thought dictating that anything could be music. She used to spout rhetoric about how cool it’d be if we made a ‘tuning song’, except we made it every time before the start of practice, and we’d learn to enjoy the sweet tones of dissonance and single semitone glissandos through each hertz and appreciate the purity of impurity. She’d talk about well, how all sound gels together to create meaning of some form. Isn’t that what it means to be a musician?

 

And a musician in an ensemble is but a single piece of a greater machine, a cog that turns the gears and spins to form a whole.

 

Well, she’s not here anymore.

 

That don’t mean things have been any harder. Well Nick’s taken over, but Nick’s just like me. Music hadn’t always been part of our entire lives.

 

But, music isn’t born with you. It, well, starts out as this little thing, that like all forms of art is a paradox. Both solitary yet cooperative, both an ocean that spits you out yet consumes you whole. And well, it’s something that everyone has, but only until you reach for it.

 

And okay so, yeah. All that just went through my mind within the thirty seconds to a full minute while we were tuning. So sue me.

 

"Wen Xian!” A harsh, intense whisper from behind. I can feel the air on the nape of my neck already. “The designs coming along swell?”

 

I give them a thumbs up, too focused on my viola pegs. Well I mean, the dark side is very delicate, isn’t it? So are our instruments.

 

The conductor’s baton hisses, and we all turn to attention. On three, the bass kicks in a waltz that begins with pizzicato knocking. And then the violins swell with life, a melody for the lower registers to support, violas and cellos giving substance and backbone to the piece. Dani wrote it, so I suppose she ‘lives on’ in our everyday lives. Even though well, she’s not dead yet.

 

I can’t really think about death because I’m way too busy living.

 

My fingers struggle to fly, bow way too close to the bridge. Playing the viola makes me feel alive because of how many things I have to take note of at any one time. I don’t have the benefit of intuition so well, everything is carefully considered and calibrated on the fly. I’m quite a logical person, having dealt with technology and tinkering from a young age, so everything’s based on self-directed algorithms and heuristics. The angle of the bow. How far my fingers can stretch such that I optimise the gap between them. Pressure. And rhythm.

 

This passage has a particularly difficult polyrhythm that we share with the second violins, something I can get in theory but have a trouble actually applying. Well, I know that if you split the bar into six, there are beats on the first, third, fourth and fifth counts, and that we both start on the first, that the violins will play the third and fifth and that we’re supposed to get the fourth but. Coordination is hard when your body is hard wired to synchronisation. Anything else just throws me off.

 

And well, us juniors only have this precious half an hour of practice in the morning. I have to squeeze out as much as I can, if not we’ll never catch up to the seniors. We can’t let them down-

 

_BANG._

 

The door quivers, loud enough to drag me out of my state of ‘flow’. It irritates me, because very few things can make me distracted once I’m into it, but with the second bang, worry starts to creep in and people are already getting up from their seats. The cellist closest to the door puts a reluctant hand on the knob.

 

A final crash and the door gives way, and a girl comes tumbling through it.

 

There’s a man in front of her.

 

He’s holding a gun.

 

None of this really registers with me as being real.

 

Until the shots are fired.

 

The screams drown out the noise of the bullets hitting concrete. The dragging of chairs and abandoning of instruments flood the senses.

 

Well, I wonder if Dani would consider this as music as well.

 

Two people manage to slip from the room. Others are paralysed by fear or have nowhere to go. Me?

 

Navigating the precarious labyrinth of chairs and music stands is tough enough on a good day. Much less when everything’s been strewn into chaos. Only way way for me.

 

I wheel myself as far back into the room as possible, where others are huddled.

 

Funny how some of the younger ones crowd behind my wheelchair, shrinking so small as though my tiny body of flesh and bone would somehow serve as a shield for them. As it stands - or well sits, haha - I’m basically the easiest target.

 

The girl from earlier is still alive and kicking. Well, she’s actually fighting with the man - who on closer inspection doesn’t look like a man at all, just merely in the shape of one. Her reflexes are lightning, her battle cries like thunder. She doesn’t let up one bit, despite the tide of the battle being against her, as she remains unfazed, facing her opponent head on. I want to help her, like bringing a cello over that thing’s head or something, but I’m helpless. There’s nothing I can do.

 

Instinctively, my fingers clasp the thumbdrive hanging from my neck, palming its grooves along with the neck of my viola as I watch in horror. Left swipe, right punch, upper-

 

A teacher dashes in, surveying the scene. Nice chap, like well those kinds that are decent enough to not treat students like shit. Teaches the first two years, I think. He proceeds to get the thing off the senior girl - whom I now recognise as one of those trackers - only to get lashed out at, and the inhuman fires off a bullet into his gut as he falls.

 

The poor teacher remains hanging in mid-air, expression pained and hair incongruent with gravity.

 

The senior girl capitalises on this distraction, flipping the thing around and pinning it to the ground, the sole of her shoes pressing hard on its face. It won’t hold for long, but even so, she presses all her body weight for however long she can.

 

She looks up.

 

Straight at me.

 

We make contact. Of the eye sort.

 

And in those visceral irises I see centuries expressed in mere milliseconds, a profound form of sublime wisdom condensed into a shade of brown like the bark of the first tree that ever sprout from the earth, and I know that something’s happened.

 

“Throw it!” she shouts, gesturing with her palm out.

 

I don’t know how I know it, but I know what she’s looking for.

 

I tug hard against the string tying my thumbdrive to my neck.

 

And well, I toss it as hard as I can towards her.

 

\---

[ROLL]

 

{Wen Xian}

Success: 4x%

Failure: 5x%

 

\---

Bets placed:

 

Caleb: I bet +2% to may that wenxian will succeed  



	11. The Musicians (Part 2)

 

Um, I would say I’m a rather anxious person.

 

Sure, I’m normally hyperactive and all smiles and bouncy extroverted optimistic but it’s like a kind of mask thing? I cover up the same way mum applies her foundation and blusher and eyeliner. I still don’t really know why, but I’m self-aware enough that I mostly shield myself in this cocoon bubble of happiness to maybe drown out everything else.

 

Anxiety means that so much is going on in your head all at once and that’s what makes you worry with all these um different possibilities so that when havoc actually erupts. It’s almost like, I’m at home? It’s like reality is finally reflecting my inner mindscape.

 

So I’m standing here, double bass perched against my shoulder as I examine the very qualities of human nature or really just nature in short, because in a crisis most people revert to almost animal-like selves, all tunnel visioned into survival mode and basically generally being selfish and who could blame them? Self preservation is in our genes and with the imminent threat of death, death means no tomorrow not even a next second no second chances or second anything depending on what you believe in its just nothingness or maybe a something else but that something else will never be ‘here’. No more.

 

Everyone’s so self-absorbed so I obviously don’t hear anybody calling for my name. No ‘Caspian! Let’s go’, or whatever or even anyone else’s names or anything. Maybe I’m just misreading the whole situation and people are gesturing or pulling or well… okay, I don’t really see that I guess. It’s a lot to take in, but it almost seems just right. 

 

Also I guess um, this all takes place in my head over the span of a few seconds? Yeah, um. Yeah.

 

I don’t really know why I’m not scared for my life when there’s this gunslinging person-thing who for all intents and purposes just probably killed a teacher.

 

Farah - really pops senior - just called out to Wen Xian, and there’s this frantic exchange going on that I don’t really understand except that I understand it’s something significant and important and then of all things, Wen Xian flings her absolutely precious no-one-else-can-touch thumb drive that I know stores all of her important necessary info that she needs to be able to access at any moment because duh otherwise why would it be around her neck but she just freaking _threw_ it and-

 

“Caspian!"

 

It doesn’t quite make it, the thumb drive. The arc is lazy and if this was a game of basketball it clearly would’ve been an airball, barely touching the backboard, but Farah has quick reflexes, so she reaches out, next extending the net forward or lowering the height so that shorter players in elementary school can also score so it might’ve been an unqualified success except that it bounces off her outstretched finger and it skids across the Strings Room floor away from Farah so she makes a dive for it, except the man-thing beneath her also throws her off so she basically does a flip where the momentum carries her way too far forward-

 

“Caspian Bell, over here!"

 

Okay so I’m quite sure I didn’t mishear it this time.

 

Gwendolyn Sim and Roxanne Gaurige are standing in a corner, inching towards me and gesturing for my escape. I point towards the neck of my bass. I mean well there are people throwing their instruments all over the place but I don’t really have the luxury with this huge thing. One of them face palms and another gives an exasperated expression reminiscent of a groan. Um well, I’m sorry?

 

So instead they move towards me because the exit’s pretty much blocked off anyway and we can just hope that this too shall pass as the saying goes and whether we can weather the storm is dependent on whether the thing focuses its attention on us and now it’s still dealing with Farah.

 

And then Klaus barges into the room, Klaus ___ who’s our rock solid foundation of a Vice President, no nonsense and direct, straightforward, and he wrestles with the man-thing who thankfully doesn’t even want to indulge him and just throws him off each time. But Klaus is relentless, Farah still scrambling and avoiding getting pummelled.

 

“We have to go, Caspian,” Roxanne tugs at my sleeve, her lithe body engulfed by the double bass. My grip on the instrument is still tighter than gripping a ledge off a mountain cliff when you’re hanging on with just one hand and about to die or something, and in that moment, the cyborg looks at me with his eye deeper than scarlet ruby garnet crimson blood-

 

And everything just freezes.

 

I can feel it.

 

The way the metallic ridges of string curl beneath my fingers against the fingerboard, the texture of wood nesting in my palm and I’m thinking it’s maybe maple maybe oak with a glossy sheen with tiger stripes except that’s not for double basses, double basses are doubly rugged and have an edge of a mellifluous quality known as crystallised wisdom as though age could be accelerated by experience and sheer mass, that the hollow container would a vessel for sound to resonate, sound crispier than the bacon that’s just a tad overcooked that make for perfect Saturday morning breakfasts with sunny side up, the yolk still runny and the edges charred and smelling like a full, content stomach, that’s what it sounds like, and I can tell how much volume fills my instrument, how the bridge supports the taut strings - did I mention the strings? - like a structure suspending roads or is it the other way round, but either way it becomes a path for music to travel on, trapped in cars and lorries just waiting to burst out from their soundproof containers of velvet seats and aircon and a dashboard with a bobblehead something jutting out, and maybe if all music could be let out into the world we’d have a cacophonous symphony or harmonious dissonance until everything just merges into one voice, and that’s how my double bass feels in this moment, not just connected or an extension of me but that it is me, and a part of my identity and being and memory and future until these cannot be scrawled in the margins of pages that’s yet to be, and the same way you can pick up a toothbrush without looking or your favourite soccer ball and feel the buoyancy leaving the heel of your foot I can just twirl the bass effortlessly, not dropping it - of course not - this particular instrument I’ve held for less than a year but the spirit of the bass, of sopranos deeper than tenors and altos, of singing the honest truth with your fingers doing their magic work in a concert that not many have yet to know or experience, and then yes I twirl the bass, the back of it facing outwards, and I know it’s as solid if not more than Klaus’ outstretched back, the way seatbelts make you feel safe or the scent of honeysuckle on a mellow summer’s evening, just security and protection and immovable, impenetrable responsibility that’s not a burden, and I can still see the flowing deep rivers of blood clearer than diamonds all congealed into a blazing sun that’s boring into me but it can no longer bore into me, not with wood as my base and the earth as my blessing and my fingers working their magic, that magic in conjunction with the earliest elements of the universe-

 

Each bullet should’ve pierced through the wood and splintered it, breaking it cleanly and making its way into my chest, but instead they’re not even lodged into the bass, just reflected or repelled like two north poles because opposites attract and thus when two similar objects collide they reject each other. No drama, no ricochet. Just a plain refusal.

 

My double bass is a shield that protects us, and even through its deadpan, emotionless face, is that a hint of satisfaction I discern from those unmoving lips colder than a toilet seat at the peak of winter?

 

Disgusting metaphors. Maybe apt? I don’t know.

 

The world comes streaming back to me, disbelief and shock and voices and Gwendolyn and Roxanne and Klaus and Farah and the senses are speaking to me now and my brain is a tortoise struggling to catch up with this race that’s a marathon, but like a marathon you sprint in, so that’s basically impossible to partake in-

 

“-you can’t! Gwen, please-"

 

“Get out as fast as you can, behind Caspian’s bass thing. It’ll cover you. I’ll distract it off."

 

“Gwen don’t-!"

 

A few things happen at once.

 

Firstly, Gwendolyn dashes out from behind the only known shelter of solace and into the murky, dirty dark waters of uncertainty bordering on certain death if not imminent demise. They safe a ship is safe in harbour, but that’s not what ships were built for - same analogy with Gwen.

 

Roxanne’s still shouting after her, pleading even after the deed is done, little to no stakes behind this wall of safety, and Wen Xian is here too, still reeling from everything and even though our collected width exceeds that of the double bass, I’m still confident that somehow, it will ward away anything that attempts to harm us.

 

Farah has wriggled herself free, thumb drive in her palm as she digs her heels into the floor, reaching towards the terminal situated on the right wall of the room, the USB port ripe for docking.

 

The cyborg has its back turned to Klaus. And oh boy does Klaus roar, a bellicose rumble that seeks to shake the very foundations of reality.

 

Oh boy, it really does.

 

* * *

[ROLL]

 

{Caspian}

Safe: 9x%

Not Safe: xx%

 

{Gwendolyn}

Safe: 4x%

Not Safe: 5x%

 

{Roxanne}

Safe: x6%

Not Safe: x4%

 

{Wen Xian}

Safe: 95%

Not Safe: 05%

 

{Klaus}

Safe: 25%

Not Safe: 75%

 

{Farah}

Success: 70 +3% = 73%

Failure: 30 - 3% = 27%

 

\---

Bets placed:

NONE

 


	12. The Musicians (Part 3)

I’m levitating.

 

Not sure what’s happening, except that my rose tinted cello case is floating as well, and so is everything else. Klaus stands in the eye of the vortex, everything swirling around him and in particular the keychain in some obscure, oblong shape that seems to be the source of all this mayhem.

 

Believe it or not, I feel a kind of resonance clasped around my right wrist, like a tickle that’s not irritating in a funny way or anything, but more of an urge.

 

It’s really simple.

 

Sounds silly to be voicing this out now, but I’ve always been a firm believer that relationships form the bedrock of our society. Not the romantic kind, you dunce, but like in general. The relationship between a mother and child, teacher and student, gardener and plant, red and blue. There are all these connections that could be rooted in the physical laws of reality - like how all objects with mass are exerting some sort of gravitational force on every other object with mass and isn’t that freaking rad? - or those that we sentient beings have made up, like the ‘fact’ that every romantic relationship should have a ‘male’ and a ‘female’ dynamic between them (that’s bullshit).

 

So, now that I’m in zero gravity free fall at what can only seem to be the end of my world - not necessarily _the_ world - I find myself even more drawn to these relationships. Especially that between my body and my right wrist. Or more of what’s wrapped around my right wrist, a reminder of things that have been and hopefully things to come.

 

One of two twin bracelets that I share with my most precious friend.

 

And I can see her now, frantic and hugging Caspian and his bass for protection, and I can see the thin line that draws her to me, and more than ever I want to keep it safe. I want to keep her safe.

 

I can see the lines, all of them. Some of them more faint than others, but they’re still there. Okay maybe not all of them, but enough for my purposes. But most important of all are all the lines that come back to me.

 

The lines that are centred around my right wrist, an anchor and nexus the same way Klaus seems to be the sun in his temporary, newly-made universe.

 

Machine-man seems to have gotten a grip on the new laws impinged upon him - it, them? - and uses brute force to swim his way to the nearest wall. That’s bad news, because any moment now, he’s gonna use that as a springboard to launch himself, and then he’ll be able to throttle Klaus senseless.

 

Or maybe the senior over there. She’s got it pretty bad, being all bloodied and bruised and roughed up but she’s made it to her desired ‘checkpoint’, with the thumb drive into the terminal-

 

No nonsense from machine-man. With a second gun he narrowly misses the senior, but the bullet goes straight into the terminal. Maybe that was the intended target all along. That’s not very good.

 

And with that, the seniorpasses out, completely spent and body slumped. She floats towards the ceiling, getting herself lodged into a corner. Out of sight and out of mind.

 

Okay okay, focus. I know the room well enough to have a mental map of it, I think. There are still eight of us inside, including the teacher. The door is still open, and everyone is floating. So-

 

First, remove the obstacles, which means the burden teacher has to either go out or further in, since he’s blocking the exit. I extend my right hand, and a link chain immediately connects his right hand to mine, stemming from my bracelet.

 

Moving him out would be harder than bringing him in. Using my legs to anchor myself behind I cabinet, I yank at the chain, sending him barrelling towards us.

 

Machine-man fires at Klaus, but the teacher blocks it, and it simply ricochets off him. Nice save.

 

A slam dunk into some stands that won’t hurt him, and it’s onto the next phase.

 

Like clockwork, machine-man manages to reach the wall, his quads already contracting as he gets ready to spring forward.

 

I deny him, and the chain materialises between our right hands as he pushes forward with such deadly momentum, causing the chain to go taut. My entire arm feels like it’s about to be torn off, but adrenaline is such a sweet drug that I just wince where I would’ve screamed, and still keeping myself grounded, by disrupting machine man’s momentum, the opposite force slams him right back into the wall.

 

But Klaus doesn’t seem to be in control of his mind anymore, gazing into the ceiling as though it opened up into the high heavens above, encapsulated by a light show of white brimstone and monochrome fire. Caspian’s haphazardly utilising his new shield in the wake of zero-gravity, twirling the thing like it’s weightless - which it is - and generally being badass while simultaneously not knowing what he’s doing at all. The life of a teenager.

 

Machine-man seems to be thinking now. Who to focus on? Klaus seems to be the immediate threat, except he’s not doing much besides upsetting the environment in a manner he has no control of. The senior’s no longer in any state to continue, and the rest of us are just defending. What are his motives, objectives? What-

 

He aims straight for me.

 

Shit.

 

I latch myself onto Caspian, before contracting the chain to tug me towards him, causing the bullet to graze my arm. It’s the same type that the machine-man used to shatter the screen, which means it’s a normal bullet. Droplets of blood find their way into the air, which would’ve been morbidly amusing any time but now. 

 

He fires a few times into Caspian’s double bass shield, before switching guns, and then aiming for the floating senior.

 

Nope.

 

One more time, I chain myself to him, and like cracking a whip, I bring him down straight to the floor. The resulting opposite force brings me higher up towards the ceiling, leaving me wide open to attack-

 

“Shit, is everyone o-"

 

Nicholas Fucking Sanchez dashes into the room, but a single step in and he’s already weightless, floating-

 

Machine-man senses the new threat, and I yank his right arm back, but that only leaves him in a position to use his left freely-

 

I can’t dissolve the chain in time-

 

Machine-man whips out a gun, and I can’t tell which one, going straight for Nick-

 

The new chain materialises between Nick and I, and even though I hear the bang, I pull with all I can-

 

But the recoil of the gun brings machine-man back towards us as well, and closer to Klaus-

 

“NO!"

 

I don’t really know who is shouting or screaming anymore, but my heart’s hammering in my chest as Nick’s limp body bounces off the wall behind me, and I chain myself to machine-man again, wanting to drag myself forward-

 

The legs of a chair scrape past me, altering its trajectory slightly and I see Roxanne, livid and her perfect hair strewn all over the place like wisps of flame. She threw the chair.

 

That chair is definitely glowing.

 

Then, I feel hot iron stab the right side of my torso.

 

Stupid, I dragged machine-man straight to me.

 

I can’t believe I didn’t concuss as he slams straight into the side of my head, and I careen off into a wall, and now Roxanne is definitely screaming, crying, I don’t know, as she throws something else that swims in my vision as a glowing, floating star, an orb for me to focus onto. I can’t sleep yet, I can’t...

 

_BANG._

Somehow when the bullet’s directed at you, it seems muted. But when it’s not, it’s like it lights up the whole place with how bright and piercing the sound is, a supernova that shakes and wakes.

 

All around us, objects start to fall, the effects of Klaus’ ability negated.

 

Gravity claims the final object, a music stand. It’s a brilliant orange seared with white, and goes straight through machine-man’s torso.

 

The monster’s still standing upright, as though the wind just brought a feather to tickle his nose. He reloads his gun, the cocking of the lever all too familiar now as broken bodies struggle to stand up once more-

 

_You are done here._

 

If anything, that voice is creepier than anything I’ve ever heard, despite the living hell of the past few minutes. My wrist feels like it’s snapping and my head is throbbing and my body’s exhausted as though I’ve been sleeping in a meat grinder for years but this unsettling voice takes the cake.

 

Machine-man straightens up, adjusting his coat.

 

_You have dawdled along for too long. Return._

And without another word, machine-man saunters to the door, hands in oversized pockets, and some form of a portal opens up, the kind in sci-fi movies that warps and connects one side of space to another. He simply strolls into it, and like that, he’s gone. It’s over. Swallowed by whatever it is, and we’re left with the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

 

Wen Xian’s thrown herself to the ground, placing herself at Nick’s body. Roxanne is shaking in the corner and Caspian stands over Klaus’ corpse. The teacher is still in his weirdly distorted position, and there’s another junior who’s been here the whole time, quietly observing, but I don’t have the energy to even remember his name.

 

And me?

 

I don’t know. The blood’s leaking out from my side like a tap someone forgot to close fully, the kind that lands you in detention if a teacher catches you. And everything feels light yet heavy, like my body’s made of lead but my metaphysical form could sprout wings, and-

 

Roxanne...

 

I...

 

* * *

[ROLL]

 

{Gwendolyn}

Unscathed: 7x%

Coma: 2x%

 

{Nicholas}

Coma: 8x%

Death: 1x%

\---

Bets placed:

 

Caleb: I bet +2% to caspian that gwendolyn is unscathed


	13. The Descending Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final mini-arc of this arc, with a whopping eight chapters.

_Hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven,_

 

My arms are lead and my fingers stretch like rubber. Not literally, I’ll have to clarify, given that such feats are technically possible now. Nothing’s really impossible now. Oh what a spectacularly rubbish few weeks it’s been.

_Ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four, ninety-three,_

 

I suppose I’ll give the low-down, which is something those of us who aren’t the high(er)-up(s) do, eh? Oh god I’m horrible at jokes. Any how. Things have just gone off the rails. Life here in the slums? A magical, intense rollercoaster ride that’s just going up and god forbid what the drop will be like. It’s only been two weeks - did I say a few weeks just now? Well, it feels like way more than two weeks, I’ll give you that - and so much has happened. So much has escalated. Ever since that first thing happened.

 

_Ninety-two, ninety-one, ninety, eighty-nine,_

 

Okay, okay, from the beginning, so that I have more to think about, and my fingers will stop being so fidgety. I don’t know what people all around call it these days - event, occurrence, episode, disturbance - but that first rumpus which changed everything happened two weeks and a day ago. Fifteen days. At some high school for the city kids. Unfortunate. A bomb went off or something, Gardistojn intervened, runaway suspect yada yada, and it couldn’t just been some radical terrorism act or whatever, but after that, things happened. All sorts of mysterious phenomena by that I mean people with freaking superpowers or abilities just started springing up everywhere. And somehow people traced it back to that source. I mean, it might’ve just been this inconspicuous occurrence but what really confirmed it was what happened after.

 

_Eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six, eight-five,_

 

That night the slums went ablaze, a rainbow of flames searing the sky. They all started coming out. Humans turned into freaks, already driven by hunger and sin and death. The backstreets exploded with fighting, the start of an unceasing war whose sparks were fanned every night. 

 

_Eighty-four, eighty-three, eighty-two, eighty-one,_

 

And then over the next few days, it happened again, and again. An explosion, followed by mysterious inhuman like figures - monsters maybe? - characterized by an exponential burst of people with emerging abilities. Explosions. It seems like the world has a penchant for going out with a bang. And yet, here I am getting my hands tied up and scorched, playing with forbidden fire, wires dancing at my fingertips. Of course it would be another bomb. Another display of pyrotechnic fanaticism. 

 

Eighty, seventy-nine, seventy-eight, seventy-seven,

 

Faster, faster. Just two days ago, it happens again back where it all started. The poor school. Heavier casualties. And then it happens again, and again. Two more times in quick succession such that nobody knows which one’s the fifth and which the sixth. An acceleration that’s due any moment now. I don’t even have time to breathe, to think.

 

Seventy-six, seventy-five, seventy-four, seventy-three,

 

There will be another roar tonight. None of the major players but all of the minor ones. People who’ve stepped in since the whole shenanigans began. The man with the child and the flask. The quintet of shadows. The duo of day and night. The silenced mother of three. And more, and more, and more. All come out to play.

 

Seventy-two, seventy-one, seventy, sixty-nine,

 

Something clicks into place, and I know I’ve done my job. One part of my part of the job. I would call the one who hired me my employer, except there’s no compensation, only violent coercion. You might think that an ability that would allow one to move anything by only thirty two millimeters is lame. You would be dead wrong.

 

Sixty-eight, sixty-seven, sixty-six, sixty-five

 

I scurry off, feet nimble as the earth caves me in. Tunnels and walls and underground. Trapped like mice and claustrophobia. I’m very good at what I do I guess, so even with the trepidation and trembling I can still make it work. Next objective, next point. The fingers crawling like parasitical insects that scamper, except I’m fine tuning entropy to fit my song.

 

Sixty-four, sixty-three, sixty-two, sixty-one,

 

We’re a tight knit operation. Less an organised gang, more of reluctant mercenaries. I don’t know my colleagues but they are there. No point getting chummy and waxing lyrical about our life stories when we’re all gonna die. Statistically. Dang, it’s grim but I’m just stating the facts. The good are gone, the bad are dead, so only the ugly will reign tonight.

 

Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven,

 

“Hey, you."

 

It’s that voice. His voice. Never mind that he doesn’t know my name is Ramona. Or that I have a call sign. But he can only be talking to me. I'm given my own secure channel, which is a privilege I guess.

 

"Nothing to worry about, boss. Everything on track."

 

Fifty-six, fifty-five, fifty-four, fifty-three,

 

His already distorted voice fizzes through the radio. "Make sure it's loud, sparky. Tonight will be _alive_."

 

"Of course, sir. Only the best."

 

Fifty-two, fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine 

 

And then we're back to silence, only strained wisps of stale air breathing through these walls. One last checkpoint. Time to make a move.

 

Forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six, forty-five,

 

I zip through the undercurrents of soil and loam. I’ve lost track of time, and only when I glance at my watch do I realise that it’s already late evening. The sun will set at any moment. Soon, the surface will be as dark as down below.

 

Maybe not. Nothing’s darker than what lies beneath.

 

Forty-four, forty-three, forty-two, forty-one,

 

The last site’s more dangerous. The earth is crumbly and threatens to collapse all around me. Buried, swallowed, if I make a misstep here. The risk isn’t high, but it’s higher than usual, and it’s not my call to make either. I’d shoulder any risk compared to the alternative.

 

Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven,

 

Red wire, blue wire, white wire, black wire. Tangled in a neat double helix, connected and strapped with energy flowing like blood through veins. I considered the range of impact, the radius of force that the explosive pushes out. The placing of the bomb, crammed and packed into a corner and sealed with clay. It’s all about hemispheres, the way it all works. Pressure and flame bursting from the center, culminating in a brazen display of power. 

 

Thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty-four, thirty-three,

 

Dangerous, too dangerous. Best get out of here while the earth is still fresh. 

 

The tunnels are flexible and trusting. I know my way around here, and I know I can get to the surface in double quick time. I manage to get glimpse of last light, before the horizon snuffs it out and we're left with the cold night. I blow between my palms as I rub them - somehow, the open gives me enough anxiety. The dog fight's starting any moment now.

 

Thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine,

 

"Sir, Seven Gimel reporting in. We're all good to go."

 

Twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five,

 

Nothing. I try one more time, and then hope my message has gone through. Now that it's all settled, I can go lay low until everything's over. I hope. Getting my bearings together, I note that I'm at York's. I'll want to head closer to the city, so the fastest way would be to hug the left corner of Second Avenue until I hit Maizey's. That'll give me enough space away from all my little trinkets buried below.

 

Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-one,

 

Muck and grime stain my hands, even as I wipe them on my apron. The colleagues give me weird looks, the other numbers under his employ. The streets are littered with them, and maybe I wonder how much I've been underestimating our whole shmuck. We're crawling with numbers.

 

Twenty, nineteen,

 

Way too many numbers. So many, that it would be too easy for someone to slip in-

 

Eighteen, seventeen,

 

It's not a fire, like I expected. Nine times out of ten, it's always fire. Flames the inferno sent up to greet us earlier. 

 

Sixteen,

 

Blue, instead. I can't tell what it is, but everyone's scattering now. They've brought the fight to us. Of course they would. Whoever initiates gains the upper hand. And in the slums? Who cares about rules? 

 

Fifteen, fourteen,

 

**And didn't I pack a bomb pretty much just a few feet off from where I'm currently standing?**

 

Maybe the fire's really coming, after all.

 

Thirteen,

 

Oh bother.

 

* * *

[ROLL]

 

{Ramona / 7ג }

Survival: 25%

Death: 75%

 

\---

Bets placed:

 

Caleb: Death, +2% to caspian hehe


	14. The Runners (Part 1)

The load is heavy, but not literally. I understand its importance, and mine. But my partner...

 

I’m not sure. He walks with his back hunched, and only hurries when I ask him to - given how time is of the essence in our work, not exactly professional. He whistles and stares off into nothingness, as though distracted. What’s causing it? Aloofness? A happy-go-lucky nature? Hubris?

 

It’s not my place to say. But all I can point out are the signs, the facts.

 

“We can make it, dove. Just have to cut through Wheeler’s and Anvil, then take a hard right on Kingeater. It’ll be easy, so relax."

 

I don’t indulge him with a response, because we are going to stick to the assigned route, the one planned with the least amount of compromise. Even if some problems arises, we have plausible deniability as we did our jobs as instructed. No deviation means no accountability.

 

When the Wheeler’s Stockade and Anvil & Co. pass on the left, I don’t cut through both buildings. I carry on ahead, and this causes him to raise his voice.

 

“Hey! Don’t be such a stiff! We’re never gonna be on time that way!"

 

“Then you best hurry up, Six Nine."

 

I know I know, his call sign is hilarious. He laughs about it all the time, claims it reflects his constellation, Cancer. Well, he’s about as likeable to be around as a carcinogen, so that’s square. The pun isn’t lost, even on someone like me.

 

"Well then, I'll be laying all the blame on you, Runner Five. Top brass ain’t gonna be running your number any longer after this."

 

Six Nine skulks behind me, periodically breaking into sprints and vaulting over low rubble, making merry with lampposts like the slums are his playground. The crisp crackle of gravel fills the air with each step, the crunch much more preferred to the sounds of war. It’s started, and the sooner we finish this job the faster we’ll be out of the hot zone.

 

Unless _he_ wants to send us in again. The other runners say that he never lets a team do more than one job for each occasion, but then again this is more of an exceptional case. The boss has ample reserves, sure, but what’s going to happen when the casualties start racking up?

 

We cross through the rails at Rook Colony - an unofficial name - as we head under the dilapidated bridge of Cranberry’s. Once upon a time, that bridge was the only passage to the sweet vineyards at Mota’s outskirts. But that was a time before my birth. Now the river’s washed up, and all that remains are the tell tale signs, the struggle for survival. The pack weighs heavier with each passing step.

 

My partner walks without a change in pace, and if he’s fatigued he doesn’t show it. He’s the one with the compass and a better lay of the land, so he points southwest before I take a wrong turn. The high he’s showed earlier has mellowed out into a middling composure. His expression unreadable - but it’s normally on the goofy side, so something might’ve been up. Perhaps he’s decided to the the assignment seriously for once?

 

I’m into uncharted territory now. The slums’ cartographers are always popping aneurysms and strokes given how often the land changes. Our map’s half useless, given that this was where shit went down two weeks ago. I’ve never been here before, but if I did, I doubt I’d recognise it.

 

Six Nine has been unusually quiet for a while now. Not sure if it’s a good sign or a bad.

 

Left turn, right turn, thirty seconds at a steady pace and then another left. Walk down the left bend, and glancing at my watch, we don’t have much time left. Still no sign of Two Point Oh Six or any of our targets, not even on the horizon. I’m starting to worry, myself.

 

“Let me check the compass one more time."

 

“Geez, stiff. Relax. I’ve got this."

 

We prowl for another ten minutes. Still nothing. And we’re already late.

 

He knows what I’m about to say before I open my mouth. “Runner Five, sometimes, you’ve got to chill. I know what I’m doing, and isn’t this your intended route, anyway?"

 

Five more minutes. We almost seem aimless. 

 

“Six Nine-"

 

“Okay okay, fine. Maybe we’re a little lost-"

 

“A little? How could we. Let me see the compass, again-"

 

“The compass is fine, I-"

 

I wrest the dial from his palms, and the arrows swerve around. Funny, I remember the North arrow clearly pointing towards the spire characterising the nearest telecommunication tower - or its ruins - but now the tower’s way off east, which can only mean-

 

“You sabotaged the compass?!"

 

It’s rare for me to accuse others this way, but deduction brought out the obvious solution.

 

“Hey, we weren’t going to get anywhere. If you just followed my original instructions to cut across Wheeler’s and Anvil-"

 

“You could’ve gotten us killed! The Numbers haven’t done a recce on Kingeater’s for at least six months now and you know how dangerous that area can be! We were specifically told to stay clear of it!"

 

I feel a shove on my back, and I strap the pack closer towards me. “Hey, what gives? Runners have to take risks, yeah? Danger is in our blood! Adventure! If not why the fuck would you take such a job, hmm?"

 

“We may be expendable, but not before we finish our job!"

 

Six Nine growls, head buried in his hands, a clear sign of frustration. “Fuck! I can’t believe I got paired up with a lame cunt like you! If I’m gonna fucking die, I wanna go out with a bang! Not this whimper bullshit that-"

 

A streak of smoke cuts Six Nine off, a shriek that howls through the night sky. A flare. Yellow and red dancing towards the clouds.

 

“That’s it!” Six Nine takes off, whooping. “The boss said to look out for the dragon’s breath!"

 

I give up on reminding him that the dragon’s breath was supposed to be after, in order to mark our way back. But I can only chase after him, because after all our package comes in a pair. One would be useless without the other. The top priority was always to stick together. 

 

Shouting after him is useless. He’s likely lost respect for me the same way I have for him. Maybe he’s denying the repercussions of his actions, running away, the only thing we’re good at. It’s not for me to say. But we spend the next few minutes chasing after the aftermath of the flare. Already way too late. This is going to cost a lot of people. The both of us, in particular.

 

I'm almost mesmerized with his focus and intent. But I have to stay focused on the job. If not me, then who? I draw in whatever information I can from my surroundings, matching them to fragments of the map. Signs, buildings and certain fractures in the road. Somehow, we've managed to cut it close.

 

"Six Nine!" I shout, panting behind him. "Congratulations, we're near Kingeater. Despite that it's dangerous to be here, maybe we could now follow your plan and we can still make the delivery. Better late than never."

 

He sticks his tongue out at me, arms extended, walking backwards. "Just because you have a pussy don’t mean you have to act like one! Come on! Grow a pair."

 

"This is no time for fooling around. We need-"

 

A single streak whizzes past me, a black line thicker than ink yet more fluid than tar. It draws blood from my cheek, painting scarlet in a single gash. It strikes Six Nine in the collar, causing him to tumble backwards.

 

His screams fill the air and I can barely make out what he's stepped into. A trap that clamps down on his right leg.

 

He ain't going to be using that for a long time.

 

How could I get so distracted? I was too focused on the mission and on my partner, that I had become complacent. There was a war going on, and we were the lifeblood of the battlefield. Cut us off, and nothing flows.

 

I turn to face our opponents. And then darkness erupts from the sky, as though night itself has fallen.

 

 

* * *

[ROLL]

 

 

{Runner 5}

Survival: 8x

Badly Wounded: 1x

 

 

{69}

Survival: 20%

Badly Wounded: 1x%

Death: 6x%

 

\---

Bets placed:

NONE


	15. The Runners (Part 2)

Nothingness.

 

Even nothingness has a substance to it. Robbed of sight, of hearing, of sense, what could possibly be left?

 

Everything else, of course. Reason, for that matter.

 

"I know who you are," I announce, challenging. I'm not lying here. But I know that my enemy manifesting themselves will play to my advantage.

 

"You want to play? There are no games in a war, but I'd be happy to indulge."

 

There, at two o' clock. Crouched on one knee, mouth turning into a crescent sneer. Formless, ambiguous, yet distinctly human.

 

The Shadows.

 

"We mean you and your siblings no harm," I raise my hands. "Let us pass, and we will be on our way."

 

"The thing in your bag doesn't seem to agree with you." I can feel them cocking their head. "As I've said, this is a war. No rules, so you should've never played with your life."

 

I try to suppress a grin. “There are rules. We just haven’t had much time to figure them out."

 

“We?"

 

It’s like an ice cold river that floats through my torso, as though boring a hole through me but I know I’m still whole. I think I’ve insulted the shadow, although I can never say for sure. Is it too much to hope that I’ve impressed them with my boldness?

 

“There is no we here, train cart. The only plural that will soon be walking, is me."

 

“What I meant,” I shiver, teeth chattering, “is that each of us has had only two weeks of time to figure out what all _this_ means. Unless of course, you’ve somehow managed to have more time than the most of us, and then I do apologise."

 

“Flattery,” the shadow spits. “Buying yourself time. But remember, that here in the shadows, the only currency we trade in, is power."

 

A chorus of _‘all I take, all I keep’_ floods through my mind. Mantra of the slums. I struggle to keep a level head, only split seconds to assess the situation. The shadows’ abilities have always remained an unknown, besides the long held assumption that the five are actually one. Is this shadow alone? Is it possible for me to crawl out of the darkness-

 

Light.

 

For a second, I believe that it’s white. Amidst pitch black, colour itself seems to pierce. But when my eyes adjust, I can see flecks of green. There’s someone else.

 

“Thief or knight?” the shadow hisses. “None shall steal my prey or rescue it from its plight!"

 

They’ve resorted to rhyming. Survivors’ notes state that at this stage, flight is preferable to fight. But I can’t just abandon a potential new ally.

 

It takes me a while to recognize her. Her knife glints like the overhead stars, blade sharper than the crescent moon. There is a wild look in those eyes framed by her glasses, yet her face is perfectly composed.

 

One Four Seven. Fellow runner. And a reliable one.

 

I suppress all instincts to check on Six Nine. As though checking would change what I already know to be true. The extraction of the body can happen after, if there's a body left.

 

She's able to match the speed of the shadow, knife twirling as she hacks away at obscurity. There's not much skill there, only adrenaline and tenacity. A puddle of darkness manifests as she lands, and I catch another pair of eyes gazing from it. Two shadows for two of us.

 

Sprinting, I tackle One Four Seven, moving her before the second shadow could have a solid hold on her, and she springs away from them, light on her feet. 

 

Both sides have regrouped. Us runners having formed a new unit and the shadows coalescing like conjoined twins from across us. Studying us.

 

That flash of green from earlier erupts again. It's foreign on One Four Seven's knife, like radioactive insects in haphazard formation, a battalion ready to march against its opponents. 

 

"We have no business with you, shadow." One Four Seven's words seem alien, because I've never heard them before. "We can do this the hard way, if you like."

 

"Two against one," the second says, voice like grating metal. "The battle's as good as won."

 

I begin to protest. There's more to my usefulness in a fight than these godforsaken abilities, but One Four Seven is ahead of me. "Two against three, actually. Would you like to find out?"

 

There's a kind of face-off for a while. Each party staring the other down, contemplating threats and ready to call bluffs. The silence stretches, and the green glow of the knife crackles, climbing to the tip and aimed straight at the shadows. They whisper in shrill whistles, sounds slithering in and out of focus, until they retreat back into the shadows.

 

"This is not over yet, number."

 

"When we return, you shall be torn asunder."

 

And with that, they're gone. A bigger bone to pick somewhere else.

 

One Four Seven pulls up the hood of her sleeveless hoodie, gesturing me to follow. A _sleeveless hoodie_. The sleeves must’ve been torn off, because I don’t believe such an absurd thing could ever exist on its own.

 

"Thanks for the save," I start, extending my hand for a shake even as we walk. She doesn't turn around. "I'm Runner Five. If you didn't already know."

 

She gives me a curt nod, as we pass Six Nine's body. As I promised myself, I don't look. I'm not sure if it's out of respect or spite, but there's no time to contemplate the dead.

 

One Four Seven collects my fallen teammate's pack, and continues soldiering on. The delivery is still better made late than never.

 

"Where's your partner?" I try to understand what's happened out here, and my new partner's circumstances. 

 

"Don't need one." The reply is curt and expects no response. 

 

That makes me uneasy, and I can't pinpoint the exact cause. Is it the fact that she so easily dismissed her own partner, a possible reflection of how she might treat me? Or that headquarters decided that she really didn't need one and that she had flown solo, despite mandatory rules that we worked in pairs. Or that she did have a partner, out of sight and out of mind?  


 

"Um," I stammer, wringing my hands. It's not like me. "Do you happen to know about my previous team's assignment? Just checking, because..."

 

One Four Seven picks up where I trailed off. "Your team not having a reliable form of comms is on logistics. The objective's changed. I was tasked to intercept your team. I thought I'd be late, but..."

 

She gestures with her knife, absent-minded. But I get her point. 

 

"What happened to Two Point Oh Six? Have they been compromised?"

 

She shakes her head. "No. We've had to speed things up, because our stronghold had an... incident. Enemy attack. HQ wants us to breach and capture the target location asap."

 

Now, I did know that a big fight would be going on, but not so much as to what our end goal was. Or what _the_ end goal was. More and more, it seemed like the whole thing was a grab for power, to secure a place within these slums that's important enough that all the players decided that they had to make a move.

 

I could almost feel the load on my back growl, and that ominous feeling swallowed itself, sinking down the depths of my stomach.

 

"The docks," One Four Seven confirmed, looking ahead. "We better hurry."

 

* * *

 

[ROLL]

 

 

{Runner 5}

Job Success: x5%

Job Failure: x5%

 

{147}

Job Success: 7x%

Job Failure: 2x%

 

\---

Bets placed:

 

Caleb:  bet +2% to May that 147 completes the job  


 


	16. The Dog Fight (Part 1)

Bustle and hustle. That's what granddaddy always tell me. Even in semi-legitimacy, we err on the better side of things.

 

The docks are the only way in and out of Mota, and our country has always been insular. We're small, we hide, swim under the radar. It's a culture thing. So how do the guv'ment prevent inflow and outflow?

 

They all lazy pricks. So they just dump the area smack middle of lawlessness.

 

So while not e'ryone in the slums are criminal, all the illegal are in the slums. 

 

Even then, it's a thin, grey line, murky shades and gradients that make e'erything so complicated. Each group has its own circumstance and way of operating. The lawlessness just acts as an incubator of possibility, where nothing's really ruled out.

 

The fam and I root behind Gareth and his men. They do us good around here, even as we struggle amidst a land where the strong take and the weak give.

 

But strength comes in all sorts of shapes.

 

"Skip! Down 'ere!"

 

Another bombard of blasts from all directions. I have to spit sand from my dry lips as I take shelter in my rocky boat. The waves are temperamental, an unsated mistress reliant on e'erything around her. Below in the cabin, there's a rustle of shouting, and mam begs me to dive deeper.

 

But I'm not going down with the ship. This ain't no submerging titanic.

 

Others have either abandoned ship or set sail. We can do neither, because we know for a fact how the sea behaves. Today of all days, is a bad day to upset the ocean. They must've known, because-

 

"Hark! 4 o' clock!"

 

I struggle against the choppy waves, even in harbour the ship ain't safe, and I turn the wheel a hard 180, preventing the ship from tipping port-wards. Pyrotechnics scream above me, as I dodge missiles and fire. I can't even tell amongst the chaos.

 

One of Gareth's people dash across the shoreline, something clutched towards his chest. He breathes horror, gulps the bloody air, swallows it whole as he sprints, and I am helpless from afar. I don't _know_ this guy, but I know him, he sat at my fam's table over supper, and-

 

Sprouting from the ground, traps in the form of fangs. Dirty green mouth that shreds him, consumes him, and there's nothing left. One of the three 'children'. Devil-spawn from the succubus herself. She is silent, deadly, and handles these monsters like a fish gliding through water. It being here means she must be close by.

 

I'm about to duck, but then I watch them collapse on it. Ropes and metal, restraining and hacking away.

 

Even with strength fueled straight from hell, it's no match from them.

 

The group that's an army on their own.

 

The Numbers dominate because of well... their sheer numbers. They compensate quality with quantity, brute forcing their way with dozens of men and women, abilities yay or nay. They pay well, accepting anyone willing to take up the mantle. They did approach us once, but Da's suspicious of their head honcho. So, we turned 'em down.

 

Gambling's a top vice in the household, but if I was a betting man? They'd be first pick.

 

I drown out the screams of the thing. The sooner it dead, the better. I try to think that if this plays out well enough, they'll rip out enough flesh from each other's throats and at the end of it all, the slums won't be worse for the wear. More death's only good in a place like this, full of scallywag scumbags.

 

And then the shrieks and howls of all things airborne pierce e'erything, an echo so loud I could split from the inside. The waves crash against ships and the shore, caused by the disturbance of at least a dozen people taking to the skies. Human artillery in a bid to take the high ground, where none exists. The wails of war be deafening. The ship is groaning.

 

Beneath my fingers, I can feel the wood creak and the whole vessel lurch, my beloved ship seasick and threatening to vomit its contents - us. But I ain’t gonna give, I won't. This is my haven, my partner, my godforsaken family. They wanna get us? They have to go through here.

 

Another careless projectile just inches from my head wakes me from my rage. We were never the targets. Only an unfortunate sideshow just waiting to be blown, an unfortunate circumstance.

 

That. That really gets me boiling.

 

Red. Red. Crimson and garnet and tangerine. I see all these beautiful colours yet they are the object of my rage, a fucked up metaphor for e'erything horrible in this life. But it fuels me, hot coals bubbling liquid onyx that gives me energy, this strange kind of spectral energy I’ve never felt before.

 

In a second, I feel powerful where I was just helpless.

 

The fam’s drowned out now, tucked away safe below. Which gives me room to act. I see it all now. The way the energy courses through my body, flows through it like a conduit that I can channel into my life’s work. I can feel material stretching and hardening and coming to life, elements I’ve moulded and carved and hammered springing into action. I reinforce the hull of my ship, and I know it’s impervious to any damage from above.

 

_I’m one of them now._

The realisation comes and goes so fast. Like, ain’t no one woulda expected ol’ Skippy here to amount to anything other than a decent craftsman, a peerless nautical engineer. But here I am, waging war in a raging battlefield the likes of never seen before in this speck of an island. I almost want to construct them cannons, grand majesties sleek to behold, firing them at fodder to quench my anger. My bloodlust and revenge. They can’t take away my home, but I can take it back now, I know I can, and it’s getting to my head, giddy with possibilities-

 

  
_BOOM!_ goes the missile as shrapnel skitters across the deck. It brings me back down to earth, just a wee bit, as I survey the damage. Nothing but a small dent. Hardly a scratch. I almost have the gall to believe me more invincible than the gods that govern. The ship’s more steady now, the anchor holding e'erything together despite turbulence, and I think we can ride it out, it’ll be alright. We can survive this calamity.

 

Just as I finish that thought, a quake that shakes the whole island. The sea churns and tosses, and before long the calvary have arrived in the form of rockets. Rockets pre-planted across the coastline to fire at any enemies. They sprout and spray like fountains on steroids, whizzing all around me upwards.

 

It takes me a moment to realise the implications. A sickening thought grapples me, as I scramble to direct all my energy into the ship. It never occured to me with all the hail and fire from above, to defend the ship from the bottom. After all, why reinforce below?

 

_Cause in a brawl when y'all playing dirty, your best shot's a good one straight to the nuts._

 

Fuck fuck fuck. No.

 

The eruption from the depths of the ocean consumes the entire base of the ship, and I’m not sure I’ve got to my family in time.

 

I slump defeated to my knees.

 

_No._

 

* * *

 

[ROLL]

 

 

{Skip’s Da}

Death: 9x%

 

{Skip’s Ma}

Death: 9x%

 

{Skip’s Older Brother 1}

Death: 9x%

 

{Skip’s Older Brother 2}

Death: 9x%

 

{Skip’s Younger Sister}

Death: 9x

 

{Skip’s Uncle}

Death: 9x%

 

{Skip’s Cousin}

Death: 9x%

 

 

\---

Bets placed:

 

NONE


	17. The Dog Fight (Part 2)

My ark is sinking.

 

Aflame, alight, broiling a lukewarm orange from the belly. With e’ery last ounce of energy I can muster, I put into patching up the ship, reverent prayers fluttering across my lips.

 

I don’t even want to think about it. I ain’t gonna-

 

Twin palms scoop me up, hands that I can’t see as I’m drifted backwards, tossed overboard. No more than a second later, does the deck explode with the hammer of more hellfire.

 

And before the murky waters can claim me, I’m saved once again. This time a body, huddling me close as we swoop towards shore. I stumble, going into a roll to break momentum before I look at my benefactor, the visage of someone who could think of more than themselves in this chaos.

 

I recognise her immediately.

 

“Moon,” I whisper, the word somethin' sacred gracing my lips.

 

“Is that what you peeps are calling us now?” she grins, arms at the ready. Her dreads seem alive, basking and whipping around under the moonlight. Although they’ve only arrived two weeks ago, this duo is feared enough as a force to be reckoned with. Makes you wonder how large the outside world’s like.

 

I have little time to waste as I wring my swollen hands. “Thank yous… ten thousand fold over, b-but… my fam. My fam’s still in there…"

 

“Listen buster, I’m awful sorry but I doubt they made it.” Her expression’s stern, but calm. “The state of that sailer… dang."

 

Ain’t got time to process that thought, because sand erupts around me, and Moon shields me once again, gangly hair forming a curtain I struggle to peer through. War continues to rage, and I’m dragged along, away from the action. An invisible force tugs me, but Moon is no more than two steps, and I mirror her movements, like a delayed marionette. I’m jerked around until we find cover behind one of the larger ships.

 

“Hey kid, gotta stay sharp,” Moon snaps, her eyes glinting with the crescents above. “My rescue ain’t just from the kindness of my bosom, but part business as well. We need a-"

 

  
_Crack_ , goes the sharp slap of the skyline, and Moon’s words are swimming amidst the plethora of sound. Can’t hear her, can’t get it down, my heart racing across the ocean at speed breakneck. Blood swelling as we dash towards unforgiving waves, wading until the water’s above our torsos, retreat after retreat.

 

“You got that?” Moon spins around, and I can’t even disagree. She gulps a brilliant mouthful of air before she goes under, and I’m left to ponder where I fit in.

 

Dying at sea seems like a more decent alternative to being shredded on land, even if I’m snagged by those underwater rockets that took my fam from me. At this point, I ain’t sure anymore. I just paddle outwards, away from all the madness.

 

My ankle gets snagged, and I yelp, heart hitched up to my throat. I kick and struggle against nothing as I’m dragged under, and I manage one desperate breath of air before the drowning begins.

 

It’s a murky mess underwater, and I that with each precious second, I’m ticking away closer to death. But the waves and currents are carrying me, or at least something is. My legs are still trapped, but I ain’t able to discern what is taking me hostage, and I let my body go limp. I’m not giving up, but sometimes the best fights are those that aren’t fought.

 

How long more? I’m not sure if I can take it. Shut down my thoughts, even the happy ones, let e’erything pass on. Even if this is the end, at least I’ll get to see them all again, at least...

 

...

 

...

 

..!

 

“..are you there? Come on shrimp! Get up!"

 

I spit out water, coughing, allowing my vision to adjust. I’m on a ship, but it’s another ship. There are so many ships lit ablaze, I can’t even bring myself to find which one was mine. But now, even this one-

 

Moon looms above me, frantic concern despite her steady expression. I ain’t taken hostage, have I? If not...

 

Glancing to my right, there’s another familiar face. Sun’s on board as well, even as the ship sinks. Contrary to his title, he’s not all blaze and glory - just a hard-boiled, middle-aged man tainted by the slick and grime of the slums. He carries dual pistols, but each in a distinct pattern. The one in his left looks heftier, larger, and it spits out shells by the half-dozen, very much like a shotgun. The right one seems to fire nothing, but when I trace the presumed trajectory, it seems to repel anyone within the radius of an imaginary orb about five meters away.

 

“Hup, son,” he grabs me, hoisting me to sit up. “You best do your work quick, or the three of us are going down together."

 

“Three..?” I’m blurry eyed and choking on saltwater. Not exactly in the right frame of mind to process anything.

 

Moon is there too, ever patient, her technicolour eyes keeping me from slipping away. “Hey I know we’re seemingly back to square one, but I need you to do me a solid. I saw what you could do with the other ship. Can you do the same for this one?"

 

The _other_ ship. _My_ ship. Dismissed so easily like that. I could almost hurl.

 

“I don’t,” I cough, spluttering. “I don’t understand…"

 

The ship rocks with a violent thud, shaking e’erything and causing me to vomit out my insides and a great deal of seawater. I feel lighter, e'erything becoming clearer, but then there’s the vile acidic taste of bile coating my burning throat.

 

Then comes the barks. Ferocious, loud. Mutt handlers. The Canines.

 

All the while, Moon fixes her attention on me.

 

“We want out. Not being mixed up in all this. It’s our final chance now."

 

I gaze at her, wondering if she’s out of her damn mind. “The ship is sinking."

 

“So fix it! I know you can."

 

“It’s beyond repair-"

 

“Not yet! You see those?” Moon gestures to a straight line of ships going up in smoke. “That’s gonna be us if you don’t hurry up-"

 

“We have no where to sail to!” I spit back. “The sea’s a temperamental, and you don’t simply disobey its will-"

 

“Anywhere but here,” Moon’s expression is pained. “Please. We can float somewhere not too far out, but far out enough, away from this madness. Please."

 

I blink, and I’m not sure if it’s my tears, or more sea water, or her tears.

 

The Canines are already scaling the ship’s side. In a moment, their slobbering faces and deadly teeth would be on board, ready to maul us. Around us, fire and water, sloshing around in a clumsy dance of anarchy, wood and metal fragmenting upon impact. By all rights, this is hell on earth.

 

But I’m still alive. I can’t fathom why, but I’m still here.

 

Without thinking, I press my palms to the boat’s deck. I feel a heartbeat. The heartbeat. The ebb and flow of the ocean pulsating through this ship. A nameless ship abandoned, now our only chance of survival. I will myself onto it, my life, its life, our lives, all pushed into it. 

 

I’m a mechanic. An engineer. A bad-ass butt-kicking shipwright.

 

There ain’t gonna be another ship sinking under my watch.

 

We gonna live. All of us.

 

* * *

 

[ROLL]

 

{Skip}

Job Success: 7x%

Job Failure: 2x%

 

\---

Bets placed:

NONE


	18. The Runners (Part 3)

We’ve reached the fucking docks.

  


Part beach, part crumbling structure, now a smattering of crushed wood and scorched sand. Runner 5 wheezes behind me, and I thank the days when coach made even us sprinters do endurance training. My tank’s not half empty yet.

  


_No need to conserve much stamina now. It’s do or die._

_  
_

Shut the fuck up, I know what I’m doing.

  


“One Four Seven! Wai-!"

  


Runner 5 lags behind me, and I attempt to keep a level head even as we enter the war zone. I’m not sure if my little companion here’s supposed to help or hinder me as I assess as many possible threats as I can-

  


_I am here to help, if you’d just let m-_

_  
_

Stop talking, or I’ll just toss you into the sea.

  


_..._

_  
_

Much better.

  


“Do… do you know…” Runner 5 is out of breath, but even during this last leg of our mission, I trust her to keep herself alive. “Where I can set this thing down?"

  


I feel my pupils being tugged to 2 o’clock, the annoying prickly feeling something I’ll have to deal with later, and I point in that direction of the coast. “Get to cover behind some boats and ensure you’re safe. Then deploy the package."

  


Runner 5 nods, the bag now transferred to her front as she hugs it tight to her chest. I better grab another partner to make sure she’s fine.

  


Shrapnel hits the ground as we go low, prone on the ground as we leopard crawl behind a fallen trunk. Surveying the beach harbour, I manage to get a glimpse of Numbers everywhere. A shrill whistle from my lips manages to catch the attention of the nearest Runner. Ninety Nine. An ability user. Perfect.

  


_Frequency amplification. A devastating abi-_

_  
_

I don’t care what ability, thank you very much.

  


Turning to Runner 5, I do the quick introductions. “Ninety Nine, get her to where she needs to be. This one’s important."

  


Not one for many words, Ninety Nine nods, and gestures Runner 5 to keep up. Hands splayed in front, the air seems to swirl and churn in front of Ninety Nine, almost like bending reality itself, distorting it in ways I can’t fathom. Runner 5’s in good hands.

  


Now for us. Our spot was much further away, almost on the other side of the coast. I break into short bursts, dashing from cover to cover, keeping to the haphazard three second rule of exposure. Here, it was better with two heads instead of one, attempting to bring up any small tidbit of crucial information during our short training that could be the difference between life or death here. 

  


_Just so you know, M-_

_  
_

Fourteen! Call me fourteen!

  


_Four…teen, well, I don’t understand how in a time like this, you still willingly reject me so._

  


Seven, just shut up. Let me handle this.

  


_You really enjoy this code name thing, don’t you?_

  


Don’t ruin it, piss-face.

  


_Two from the left._

_  
_

I can see them myself. Let’s heat things up a little, then.

  


Knife at the ready, a smooth transition from my right to left palm. I flick open the blade, and allow a scathing orange to bloom amidst the purple night, a flare to ward and warn. The two don’t even take work - one runs away and another gets stung by the fire, burning his shoulder as I scorch him with the flat of the knife. He howls, hobbling along before another Number deals with him. It’s nice, because as a Number, there are more allies than enemies around me.

  


Making my way towards the water, coarse sand starts to sift through my worn out sneakers, and the tide makes for an uncomfortable, soggy squelch beneath my soles. I’m unable to adhere to training protocol, and dividing my attention because I have no partner to cover me - no partner I can trust, anyway. It is inefficient, but not a hurdle I can’t overcome, just a-

  


_From the right-!_

_  
_

Instead of just listening to the command and reacting, I let my pupils shift, glancing rightwards to clarify for myself, and by then there’s not much tracking to do as the fireball comes barrelling through. I make it out alive by bare millimetres as I don’t slow down, instead using the momentum to allow me to cover more distance and as the projectile impacts me, I go with the flow, twisting and letting it knock me over. I taste mud and blood, and that’s when it rises from the ocean.

_  
_

_-won’t you listen? If you would just-_

_  
_

That _thing_  bulks at an easy five meters, a vague bipedal silhouette with a tangle of limbs. It’s a catastrophe. Mutated. Modified. Not remotely human, and to think that such a beast existed even before this madness. A trump in its own right, an ace in the sleeve.

  


A product of science gone awry, or the ___ of a genius, or both.

  


For it’s size, it’s notorious in how noiseless it can be, just the sheer pressure of vapour being pushed out of its frame creating a low hiss. Likely a cooling mechanism of sorts. It doesn’t bellow or roar, and the ocean dampens its steps as it marches towards me, swinging one arm towards-

  


My body jerks and rolls even though my right arm screams in pain from the earlier impact, the sand prickling the battered bruise, and then I’m in charge of my senses again. The blow ruptures the earth, the sand parting like it could crack. I scramble back up, cursing everything, the closeness of death nagging me and my conflicted feelings attempting to resolve themselves in the name of survival.

  


_We need to work together. Now. I’m sorry for what I just did, but if not we would both-_

_  
_

Shush. Let’s focus.

  


_As you wish._

_  
_

My left hand isn’t my master, but it will have to do. The monster glances at me, reactions slow and dim. The blade lights with its brilliant orange, and taking advantage of my lithe gift, I charge.

  


Each slash is like bashing your head against the wall, interrupted by the sheer sturdiness of the monster’s exterior. I hack as much ‘flesh’ as I can, but they amount to nothing more than scratches, even with the flames licking it. The monster’s arms are like gargantuan guillotines, flailing about to get rid of me like a pesky insect. True to the analogy, I attempt to sting it as much as I can, annoy it enough to back off if it’s unintelligible enough. 

  


Please, give up-

  


_DOWN!_

_  
_

Too late, I’m following my instincts and paying little heed to hers, and I go up. Like before, I don’t stop myself, instead willing every fibre of my being to go a little higher, for my jump to clear the arm and vault over, but I am only human. Even as I feel her yank against me and take over, I know it’s useless. I am going to take even more damage.

  


Arm connects with leg, bicep straining against calf. I find myself flying backwards, but strangely enough, the pain doesn’t set in. My leg isn’t shattered beyond recognition nor discombobulated beyond repair. As I set myself up for rolls to break my fall, I can tell that nothing has been broken as I hit the floor. It becomes apparent why.

  


_This won’t happen another time. Not everyone can save your reckless foolishness. Not even me._

_  
_

Ninety Nine has come to back me. Which means that Runner 5-

  


_Is successful on her end. Your turn._

_  
_

My fellow Number must’ve cushioned me in some way, a barrier to prevent direct damage to me. I count my blessings. There aren’t many left.

  


"Can you fight?" comes their crisp reply. I stand, hobbling but otherwise still in two feet. I return with a curt nod.

  


The orange serration of my blade traverses the entire spectrum to rest on a humble indigo, before rippling out into a harsh indigo. Hands raised, Ninety Nine begins to draw through the wind, and the air shifts under their command.

  


Facing us, the beast locks its eyes - if it even had any. It's on.

  


I grip the handle of my knife even harder, muscles tensed to act.

  


This is it.

  


_Stay alive._

* * *

_I guess you can tell whether or not they trust each other._

_  
_

_  
_

[ROLL]

  


{One Four Seven}

Survival: 6x%

Death: 3x%  


  


{Ninety Nine} 

Survival: 9x% 

Death: 1x%

  


\---  


Bets placed:  


  


NONE  



	19. The Retreating Numbers

_I’m not complaining that she’s found a partner she can implicitly trust. Better Ninety Nine than me, if it keeps us both alive._

Pivot on left foot, drive forward with knife and dig into meat. Dislodge weapon, skip backwards and out of range. Rinse, repeat, find chinks in the armour.

_She’s an athlete, but foremost a fighter. I can only take a backseat and observe, performing as active a passive role as I can. While she focuses on what’s immediate, I draw in the surroundings. I excel at absorbing in copious amounts of information, ensuring that outside factors don’t interfere, and then sendings nudges to adjust accordingly. The urge to wrest control is so strong, given how intent she is on killing herself, but I have to remind myself that nonsense of that is what landed us in such a tenuous situation._

_If we are to improve our relationship, we need to trust._

_That is something I have to earn, and something I have failed at._

Flinch, wince, grimace. Hazy thoughts while negative scribbles buzz about, emulating the noisy insect I am to the beast-

 

_I need to stop. Doubt is leaking over into her, and this will affect her, even though I’m not conscious in exerting any presence. Does she even notice it? No, because then it would be over._

_She can’t know how intertwined we are._

I can’t know what?

 

_Sorry! Focus! Stray fire coming from 5 o’ clock._

Taking mental note, avoiding it even as Ninety Nine covers the angle.

 

_Ninety Nine’s ability can be infinitely scaleable, latent with unlimited potential for abuse. I sure am glad they’re on our side, and they are a testament to the quality of Numbers around._

_A direct shockwave to the front, and the monster’s forced to recoup its balance by bringing its left leg backwards. The two of them further threaten its stability, pushing the creature further back with each concussive blow._

“Stand down!"

 

Turn and sprint, getting behind Ninety Nine. Take the time to breathe, adjust bearings.

 

_It’s nice that she follows others’ commands without question. At least I know she is capable of that._

 

"Antechamber."

 

_An invisible prison. I don’t know how Ninety Nine is doing it, but she’s manipulating frequencies to a monstrous extent, to the point the giant is paralysed._

 

Ninety Nine is curt. “Get up."

 

_It takes me a while to realise that she is talking to us, instead of challenging the beast to fight back._

 

"Boost me,” _she says_.

 

"Roger."

 

Without a second thought, we are propelled into the sky. Way above the intended mark, but I can make it work.

 

_They’re all flipping mad, these numbers. She’s truly found her kin. And by association, I guess I am too._

Land on the top, wrestle with the beast from its crown. Stab and hack away as much as I can.

 

_I guide her tenuous balance, the growling thing on our back reacting even more, like a stomach upset and I know that we need to end this quick._

_Single prolonged strike. Do it._

Two strides forward, turn right and let gravity run its course. Blade a sickening purple, and stab downwards. Sink the knife and corrode. Chip away armour. Don't let go of the handle.

 

Create an opening.

 

_Ninety Nine continues to support us, restraining the beast. I see the monster's thick hull giving way, the poison doing its work, and the way its exoskeleton parts to give way to sprouting gaps._

Use the knife as a fulcrum, pry it open further. Digging deeper, deeper.

 

_Unguarded flesh, an alive mass breathing its first whiff of air._

_I see the weakest spot. There._

Flame and lightning, flickering between one another. I strike, and ready the monster's collapse. Incapacitation.

 

_Ninety Nine gives a push, and the beast tips._

Hoist myself to a flatter surface, adjust for impact. Ninety Nine and I make eye contact, and I unstrap my pack, toss it to them. They will complete our mission.

 

At the last moment, roll into the ocean to be cushioned by the water. Descend then ascend. Pinch nostrils to prevent water from flooding my head. Float, then breathe.

 

_We did it. Even if it isn't dead, it won't disturb us for the duration we have to be here._

_By the time we paddle to shore, her muscles are shot. There will be much needed recovery after this._

_I spot Runner 5 coming in from the left. Alone, face caked in grime and worry. Ninety Nine saunters from the right, and they're not alone._

_Two Two Alpha. Higher echelon. Third highest level of command._

“The job’s done. Report back, then retreat.” His voice is imposing and regal.

 

“Now? Don’t we have have to-“ Runner 5 starts.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said retreat!”

“I thought-"

 

“All of us! Retreat!"

_The exit is as chaotic and frantic as our entrance. We pull back, although still facing our enemies, our intention clear as the strong make way for the weak to escape. Much like facing god and walking backwards into hell. After our enemies deem us as unworthy to pursue, we are left alone, and the battle continues raging through the heat of the night._

_Two Two Alpha motions for us to stay close, and we do. He walks brisk, each stride with a certain flair as he barks commands, and other runners scout the area ahead to ensure a clear path to safety. Back to Headquarters, even though it was compromised._

_But we should be out of the battle now. No one would focus on us anymore._

_The wounded lie about headquarters, various administrative and medical tents set up to accommodate patients. Two Two Alpha holds open a flap and ushers us into one such tent. Ninety Nine, Runner 5 follow close behind us._

_Once we’re inside, the commander turns his attention to us._

Good job on the mission,” _Two Two Alpha acknowledges._  “Runner 5. One Four Seven. I am sorry for your loss.”

_She shrugs. Casualties will always be the result of conflict._

“Stay here and rest. Tend to your injuries. There is much work to be done, after. But you have made it such that it will be minimal.”

 

_She nods, and Ninety Nine acknowledges in their own unique way, head tilting upwards even behind crossed arms. Only Runner 5 doesn’t seem to know what’s going on._

“The war, sir,” _Runner 5 asks._ “Is it… over?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then… we lost? Or…”

 

  
_Two Two Alpha manages a smirk._ “Quite the contrary, runner. It was a swift and decisive victory in our favour.”

 

  
_This makes Runner 5 even more confused._ “But sir..? We were asked to retreat..?”

_Ninety Nine takes seat at a nearby cot bed, and we follow suit. Runner 5 still remains standing next to Two Two Alpha._

“Runner, what do you think you had in your pack? What were you asked to deliver?"

 

_A freak of biology, a weapon of engineering. A trump card disguised as but another clever yet inconsequential element. How wrong it was to dismiss it._

“Um… I don’t know?” _she looks at him in the eye._ “Am I supposed to? Is it important?"

“It’s an organic weapon,” _Two Two Alpha states._  “They work as a pair, and they will control the area bounded by them across the coast-line."

 

"A weapon? Control… what?"

 

"The elements in the ocean, at least close to shore.” _This time Ninety Nine is the one who answers._  


 

"Huh? W…wha-"

 

  
_Two Two Alpha sighs._  “Let me explain. What you carried was an organic machine, operating on the principles of homeostasis to regulate the concentration of certain chemicals in the water. It’s much like a coral system of sorts. The point being, they will be able to sense and alter the waters to our benefit."

 

"Our benefit?” _It almost worries me that Runner 5 seems capable of only asking incomplete questions._  


“I can answer this question,” _comes a sickly voice from a bed in the tent._  


  
_It is the only other occupant that was present before we entered. She’s in bad shape, her legs clearly blown off or amputated, and burn marks that cover a great deal of her skin, like patches of grass on a dehydrated land._ “I’m Seven Gimel, one of the chief engineers who barely made it out of the attack on HQ. May I have permission to speak, sir?”

 

_He gives the go ahead with the wave of a hand._

 

"By releasing chemicals that corrode all sorts of metal and wood. Eating into any ships not already protected by the special coating we’ve created to counter it. It’s harmless to most organic forms, but any ships will break down, rendering the docks useless to anyone that isn’t us."

 

"Doesn’t that mean-"

 

"Yes. I see that you’re catching on. The harbour is effectively ours. It’s over now. We can retreat-"

 

“Then!” _Runner 5 sweeps her hand in a vivid, wide motion._  "What was the whole point of us-"

 

"A mere distraction to play along with the rest.” _Two Two Alpha reassumes command of the conversation._  "The point was never for us to win. We could secure victory in the short run, then what? Even with our numbers it is a fools' game to have to guard the harbour and take a constant, defensive position."

 

"All this was contingent on our mission?” _Runner 5 is in disbelief._  "B-but why would the higher ups entrust something so vitally important to us? Why-"

 

"Because they trusted us to get the job done, but they didn’t want to raise any alarms.” _She says with absolute certainty._  "It was meant to be inconspicuous, and there were many backup plans should something happen.” _She looks to Two Two Alpha for confirmation, and he nods in response._  


“In a matter of moments, we will set off the explosive charges my team and I have planted throughout the underground of the slums,” _Seven Gimel says._  "This leads out to the ocean, and will release a large amount of chemicals that will kickstart the reaction with the organic machines you planted. Then it’ll be over. Rest now, we did it."

 

_And with that, Runner 5 finally gets the whole picture, and settles into a bed, preparing herself for the long haul._

 

_It doesn’t matter anymore. We might lose the battle, but we’ve already won the war._

_All that’s left is to retreat and watch the aftermath unfold._

_The harbour is ours._

* * *

[ROLL]

 

{The Numbers}

Success: x5%

Failure: x5%

 

\---

Bets placed:

 

NONE


	20. The Reinstatement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standalone chapter, and the End of Arc 1

“Corporal First Class #1127, can you hear me? Corporal First Class #1127, do you read me?"

 

Sound before light. Not blaring, but at ease. My muscles tense, instinctive to stimuli but voice told me I am safe. I relax.

 

I blink twice, adjust to the kind face above me. Sterile and cyan. Cotton mask. A doctor. I don’t know who she is, but I know what she is for. The memories do not come, because memories are not what I need. What I need is experience distilled.

 

“Please keep low while the preloading procedures are underway. You may feel slight disorientation and grogginess at the possible information and sensory overload. Do not be alarmed, this is normal.” Her voice like the birds and bees. Smooth humming. The words mechanical, nothing new. Nothing important. I cannot be alarmed.

 

I look at her as other images flash before me. Her eyes electric, silky, alive. I hear her from behind the mask.

 

“You have been reinstated as a peacekeeper of Mota. The investigation has cleared you as fit for duty, that any and all discrepancies or misbehaviours that took place during the First Incident can be attributed to mysterious elements yet unknown to us."

 

I nod, picture clearer with each passing second. 

 

“How long have I been out?” My voice is different, yet familiar. Something to call my own.

 

“The transfer procedures were more messy this time it was harder to retrieve the full backup immediately. It has been just under three weeks."

 

Fingers crinkle as I allow sense to guide me. There is a mark on my knuckle, a small chip. A fissure splitting one segment from another. I gesture to it, and the doctor grins with her eyes, cheeks lifted.

 

“Just an embellishment. Beauty that breaks from stress, nothing to worry about."

 

This body was a sturdy enough structure. After what happened, no surprise that tests were more rigorous. 

 

I run fingers through hair. Coarse and curly, I pluck one. Colour of dusk and chestnut. Fingertips trail from cheek to jawline to chest and pelvis. Getting used to what is, how to mesh form and function.

 

“Don’t worry too much. There will be an adjustment period and conversion course, as usual. Schedule that with your unit’s admin.” Last machinery whirs as she places thumb on my forehead, gentle gesture to keep me down. She “Alright, just the finishing touches as I establish the link-up between you and your squad."

 

Squad. Detachment. Section. Eight of us, I remember now. One Sergeant, Three Corporals, One Lance Corporal, Two Privates. And me. Eight as one. One of eight. Mota’s Ninth Gardistojn Division, Fourth Brigade, First Battalion. Kirin Company, Urban Strike Platoon, Second Detachment. Everything we’ve done together, exercises and operations and trainings. I can see it now, the way we work as a whole.

 

Their traits crystallise in my head, a solid foundation of each member’s strengths and weaknesses, their constitution and habits, the synergy and syzygy. Switchblade, pistol, semi-automated assault rifle. Formations and tactics. Intuition. That last one was most important. 

 

Four short beeps, everything relaxes around me. Doctor smiles with eyes, but also with wrinkles and a lift of the cheek. The equipment detaches itself, I sit upright. She scribbles some notes on tablet while addressing me.

 

"That should be it. The diagnostics from your vitals come out clean, so there should be no problems. As per protocol, do come back for checkups after a week, month, etcetera."

 

"Thank you, doctor."

 

I move to bed’s edge, feet touching the floor. 

 

"Discharge your duties with honour and efficiency.” She brings her hand to forehead, initiating a salute. Not a civilian, but a medical officer. "Protect our nation, Gardistojn."

 

“With my life,” I reply, waiting for her to cut down before I follow suit. I proceed to march out of my ward and the building. Head held high.

 

My detachment is waiting for me exactly where I know they would. Two lines of three, with our detachment commander up front, all at attention. I initiate the salute, and he responds in kind.

 

"That you, Cor?"

 

"Yes, Sergeant.” 

 

“No need to be so formal, pal. At ease.”

 

The squad breaks off, forming a circle around me. Their welcome is mere symbolism. An outward display. I already know what they feel, they know it need not be expressed. But touch is appreciated. Contact stimulates the nerves, oxytocin and all those other chemicals that we cannot rely on being artificially pumped or regulated.

 

Back to work after a minute. No time to rest, with resurgences and anarchy in the streets. In the slums. Lawless activity creeps across the blurred lines, the border expanding at alarming rates, from subtle to outright provocation. The integrity of our country cannot be compromised.

 

No room to be behind. As the section 2IC, I have to be there for them. For my country.

 

For the Gardistojn.

 

Duty, Honour, Efficiency.

 

* * *

 

End of Arc 1: Introductions and Beginnings

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends the first 20 chapters and first arc of [ROLL]. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading as much as I’ve enjoyed writing the story.
> 
> Also, there will be no roll of the dice of End Of Arc chapters, like this one. 
> 
> UPDATE: I wrote this standalone chapter a while ago, and while the information above is still relevant, there are some changes.
> 
> [ROLL] will be on indefinite hiatus. The planned scope of the story is much, much larger than these first twenty chapters, and the mechanics that make [ROLL] special will also need tweaking, if I am ever to continue the story. 
> 
> Point being, with all I have going on, [ROLL] is not going to be a priority anytime soon, given how spontaneously it started, coupled with whatever else I have lined up, and the amount of commitment this story is going to take.
> 
> It’s been a fun ride, more a proof of concept than anything, really. I do hope I get to write about May and Yasmine, about the String Orchestra and Mota and the entire universe that encapsulates the roll of the dice, but not today. If we ever do update again, I hope you’ll stick around for the ride.


End file.
